The Price of Family
by DJ Clawson
Summary: The very extended Bennet, Darcy, and Bingley family is disturbed by a letter from the Continent. Continuing the series that began with 'A Bit of Advice.'
1. The Master of His Realm

The Price of Family

By DJ Clawson

Another sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "A Matter of Consent"

Author's notes: I know I said the last one would be darker than the first, and though it had a more serious plotline, it still ended up having humorous bits in it. Well, the same will probably hold true for this one, though quite obviously (from what you're about to read) there will be some tragedy in this one. This is a more major undertaking, and will be longer, and resolve some issues that I've not yet brought up. Also, because of my current health, I can't promise a post every other day, but I'll try to keep the updates regular, because it's unfair to do otherwise.

For those of you just coming in, the first story featured the marriages of the Darcys and the Bingleys and the births of a son and a daughter to each, respectively. The second story concerned Jane's pregnancy with twins and Caroline Bingley's eventual marriage to the lovably hapless Doctor Maddox. We now return to our plotline, a few weeks later, with Elizabeth pregnant and the Maddoxes settled in London.

* * *

Chapter 1 – The Master of His Realm 

Looking out on the lands of Pemberley and the surrounding Derbyshire as a king would his kingdom, surveying all that was in his grasp, Fitzwilliam Darcy would normally breath in a deep sigh of relief that all was under his control, and that he was the master of his own fate. He had been a loyal son, a good student, an excellent outdoorsman, a suitable gentleman, a good friend, a loving husband and brother, and now was a caring father as well. Every situation that had arisen, no matter how trying, had been handled, usually with the utmost civility and control (not always, but usually).

He supposed, with what little emotional distance he had left in him, he could look on the matter and say that one who tempted God forced the Lord's hand to prove that Mr. Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire was _not_, in fact, the master of his own fate. He just wished it could been done in a manner that was a bit more subtle.

"Brother?"

He didn't turn to address her properly when he heard Georgiana's voice. That would have required him getting up, and he did not find the inclination to move. Manners would just have to suffer. Manners were gone from him entirely. "Yes?"

"Do you want something?" she stammered. "I mean, can I get you something? You've – you've just been out here a long time."

Her, _serving_ him? Didn't he have a well-paid staff for that? No, he remembered, he'd shooed them all away. "No, thank you. Is she awake?"

"No."

_Good_. "I'm fine. Thank you for inquiring."

She took that as a dismissal, which was good enough for him, because he was not interested in having a conversation with his sister, or anyone for that matter besides Elizabeth, and even then he had no idea of what to say. There hadn't been a course for this at Cambridge. What a waste of time, studying literature, when it all amounted to nothing. He should have gone to medical school. He should have had a profession as a doctor and not been a uselessly idle gentlemen who could do nothing in a crisis of any worth.

Georgiana had returned, because he felt her soft touch as she put a blanket over his shoulders. There was a chill on the evening air but so far his mind had been elsewhere. "Just so you don't catch cold." And then she disappeared again. Maybe she didn't know what to say _either_. Not that it was a situation for excessive confusion or sorrow. That it had been unexpected just proved fools of them all.

Elizabeth's course descended on her when it shouldn't have, four months into her pregnancy. He could only think "courses" because it seemed a less vulgar way to describe it than just bleeding, which was what it was. And pain. She had been a little stoic at first, but did nothing to hide her alarm, and rang for the most knowledgeable woman on these matters on the grounds, which was Mrs. Reynolds. She was so dismissive of his worries, perhaps fearing they would eclipse her own, and tried to toss if it entirely if it hadn't continued, and if pain hadn't set in, and by the time the doctor arrived, their child was gone, though the doctor insisted on not calling it that, or having them call it that. That the Darcys hopes for a second child disappeared for no apparent reason and in a bucket hit them both, quite obviously, at a level they hadn't expected. Of course, Elizabeth was a normal woman and in the course of their marriage, could expect to miscarry, perhaps as often as she carried to term. That her mother had never done so was a wonder unto itself, and Elizabeth admitted to not having noticed it, what with all of the emphasis on the lack of sons in the Bennet families. She said that somewhere between sobbing and being forced into bed from exhaustion.

This was not a formal mourning; no one had died, and there was every temptation to close ranks, at least for the moment. Nonetheless, from the very first look he had at the amount of blood she was losing (and where she was losing it from), Darcy had called for Doctor Maddox, who very unfortunately lived in Town and therefore could not appear in Derbyshire at a moment's notice, and they had to settle with the local doctor, who was perfectly competent and they had relied on in the past, but Daniel Maddox still seemed this magical wonder who could save everyone and do no wrong, perhaps because he had in the space of three months saved both Darcy and his own brother's lives. But no, he was in the south, and the message would not have reached him by the time it was all over and done, and if he did apply to Pemberley, it would only be to give his regrets as a relative for the unhappy circumstances.

Elizabeth had to tell Jane; of course, everyone had to be told, because everyone had been told she was pregnant some time before, but there was an order, and it was not formally set out like a party invitation. It was more that Elizabeth demanded no one see her, then finally cried for her sister, leaving Darcy to fill in the order of the correspondences. In the shortest note and with his most precise and ordered handwriting, betraying nothing of what he felt, he wrote to Longbourn with the unhappy news and left it entirely to the Bennets' discretion as to who would come. Mary Bennet was still on the Continent, and Lydia was still the wife of George Wickham and therefore did not enter into his thinking entirely. He also wrote to the Gardiners even more briefly, barely more than a line. The Hursts he would leave to Bingley, who he applied to by courier, and they arrived within the hour. That was the only reason he was willing to leave Elizabeth's side, was when she was joined by her sister. Whether they were talking or not was none of his business.

He was genuinely both happy Bingley was there and not in the mood to have a conversation with him, something he made known mainly (he hoped) by inflection when he addressed him, and then disappeared onto the balcony outside his rarely-used bedroom. He remembered through a haze that gentlemen did not show their tears, and that much stuck with him enough that he took the privacy afforded to him by Jane's arrival to disappear.

When he finally went inside, it was nearing midnight and his wife was sound asleep, so he only kissed her on the cheek but could not find the lack of energy required for his own retirement. Instead he went to the nursery, where his son was also asleep, and Darcy began to conjure what it was he was to say to him in the morning, but nothing came, and Geoffrey Darcy slept on. All he could think of, that he said out of earshot as to not wake him, was, "You have no idea, the burden on your shoulders someday." Because, to be Master of Pemberley was to inflict a horrible circumstance on his wife, however unintentionally. Everything was colored by the circumstance; he had in him still enough sense to see that.

It was Georgiana, again, who found him first. "The Bingleys are staying the night."

He just nodded numbly.

"Mr. Bingley is in the drawing room, but he said he doesn't require anything, and Jane went to her room. And the dogs are still outside." Because, how they'd howled. It was unnerving when they knew something was wrong. "I'm sorry, brother."

"I am, too," was all he could think of to say as Georgiana embraced him.

"As much as I love my sister, I am so sorry it is someone as nice as Elizabeth to have the fate of being _Mrs._ Darcy," she said, and then added quickly, "Oh, I didn't mean –"

"It's fine."

"No, I meant, Mrs. Darcy. As in, our mother."

This lowered his guilt and self-pity and raised his curiosity enough to say, "What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean, you know – surely you know."

"No," he said. "I don't know."

She put her hand over her mouth. "Then maybe I shouldn't have said. Certainly now isn't the time."

"Actually, you haven't said anything," he said. "As to what this is about. What about our mother, that you know and I do not?" Because, after all, Mrs. Anne Darcy had died shortly after giving birth to Georgiana. "Please. I insist."

"I suppose you should know. It's just – ill-timed," Georgiana whispered. "Our mother lost more babies than she kept, brother."

She gave him the time to properly sort it out. She was nearly ten years his junior, and he had no other siblings. So, with the twenty years of marriage between his parents, who as far as he remembered cared for each other at least decently, it made some sense that there had been either periods of barrenness or failed pregnancies. But the subject had never been openly discussed with _him_. "How did – "

"Mrs. Reynolds. Before I was to go Out, she thought it prudent to know what to expect. Oh, please do not blame her."

"Not in the least." Mrs. Reynolds had been in the employ of his father since his own childhood, and had been head of the household since his adolescence. It was no surprise that she knew more of the personal family history of the Darcys than he did – when it came to women's issues, at least. "Thank you for telling me."

"I hope it was ... some comfort."

He smiled sadly to her, which apparently was enough of an assurance that it was, because she said her goodnights and disappeared. Most of his staff had retired, and he was inclined to wander for a bit, because the halls had always given him comfort, even though now they just seemed empty and ... barren.

The lights were still lit in the sitting room. Bingley was reading by the fire. Darcy took a seat by his side and he nodded but said nothing. One of the things that Darcy valued very highly about their friendship that despite Bingley's reputation for being oblivious and talkative, he knew precisely when to be quiet – at least around Darcy. He was there but he did not puncture the silence for a very long time, as his friend and brother stared numbly into the fire.

Only after he began to play with it with the poker, and make some noise, that Bingley said softly, "It was never a competition."

"I know," Darcy replied.

And that was all that needed to be said.

* * *

The letter posted to the Maddox townhouse in exceedingly good time, but the doctor already knew from the description that it was too late, and shrugged sadly. When inquired as to its contents, he told his wife the unhappy news. Even though he would never hold back from his wife unless absolutely necessary, especially on family matters, Elizabeth was not her favorite person, and it could mildly be concluded that at one time she had wished ill on her now. Whether that was still true he doubted, but he still found himself surprised at her emotions, as she did seem saddened by the news.

They were in bed when the letter came, but he knew he would be getting up and racing to Pemberley. He ordered the carriage ready, but stayed in bed nonetheless, at least for the moment.

"I suppose there's no reason to rush," Caroline Maddox said.

"No," he said. "I mean, I will go, but not this instant. And by now, she may well be fully recovered, though not fully emotionally." He sighed. "He wants me to work a miracle, I suppose. Or he did when he was writing this letter. Mr. Darcy does not seem like he would remain insensible for an entire day. And I doubt I could have done anything, even if I was standing there. I am not an expert on ... womanly issues, but I know that much."

"Perhaps you should become an expert."

He smiled, but then he looked at her in the lamplight and realized it wasn't meant to be a joke. He took her hand, and found it trembling. While he was processing what he was going to say to Darcy, he hadn't even considered ... He kissed her palm, as if that would placate her fears. "Everything will be all right."

"And if it's not?"

"These things are not of our control," he said. "Perhaps something is wrong, and the body just ... rejects it. Instinctually." He cracked a weak smile. "I tend to be one for trusting a woman's instincts." His hand strayed to her stomach, feeling under the bed robe.

"It's what makes you a good doctor," she said, kissing him on the cheek. "That and your skill with a needle. If we have a daughter you could teach her how to embroider cushions and tablecloths, and turn her into a nice little lady."

"I think I've just been insulted," he said. "And I think I'm going to ignore it." He eventually heaved himself up off the bed and began to stumble around for his clothing.

"I want to come. I mean, to Kirkland, where I imagine you'll be staying. Unless you think – "

"No. You can ride to France if you want."

"Darling, you _can't ride_ to France."

"I meant it _metaphorically_," he said. He leaned over and kissed her again. "You will be fine."

Because, apparently, she needed reassuring.

* * *

On the pretense of visiting Jane, the three available Bennets made their way to Hertfordshire. Since officially nothing had happened, or nothing to be spoken of except in privacy, there was no family gathering except at Kirkland, and those who were want to visit Elizabeth could easily do so.

Mrs. Bennet was the first to appear, fortunately with Jane. Darcy took Mrs. Bingley aside and said quite quietly and clearly, "If she says something that upsets Elizabeth, I will cast her out of Pemberley. Not to be rude to my mother-in-law, but you understand?"

"Perfectly," said Jane, and followed her mother.

Elizabeth Darcy was still in bed. She had not left her chambers in several days, and was rarely upright. The shades were drawn even though it was past noon, putting the room further into stupor right along with her.

"This, this won't do," said Mrs. Bennet nervously, as if she didn't know how to act around her own daughter, and she pulled open the curtains, filling the room with light. "Two hundred servants and you can't have someone opening your own curtains?"

To this, her shocked daughter had no response. Mrs. Bennet ran around the bed again and sat beside her daughter, embracing her, and with this, she was silent. Jane sat down on the chaise, somewhat bemused.

"Now now, Lizzy, we're all very sorry, and I am sorry to be the first one to tell you this, but as mothers are to suffer some unhappiness in our lives."

"Mama," Elizabeth said incredulously, "I do know _that_."

"No, there is nothing to compare, then to the trials of motherhood. No matter how happy or well-settled or loved we are, we will all suffer a bit in our turn. But I spent far too many years wrecking myself with guilt to watch you do it. Do you wish your wonderful Mr. Darcy to have suddenly married _me_?"

"Mama," Jane said in Elizabeth's place, "What do you mean?"

"You know precisely what I mean. You're both women with children. But you had the great ability to bear sons and I did not. So you have already succeeded where I failed, and that itself is cause for joy, no?" She stroked her second daughter's hair. "It may not feel this way now – we women have a tendency to lose perspective, even _you_, Lizzy, but you have all of the treasures of the world in front of you – a loving husband, a wonderful home, a beautiful son."

"Are you telling me to cheer up?"

"No, I'm barely in control of my own nerves; I hardly see how I could give advice about other people's." And yet, Mrs. Bennet seemed perfectly calm, if appropriately sad at the situation, and that in itself left her two daughters utterly put off. "You will be your old self in no time, you will see."

Darcy did not invade the privacy of his wife's bedroom, usually very much his own domain as well as hers, until his mother-in-law and sister were done and gone, and by then it was getting late. Elizabeth did not eat with the rest of them, her appetite being sparse, and so he did not see her again until he could be properly excused from his guests.

"Lizzy," was all he said as he entered, surprised to find her sitting up and reading, something he hadn't seen in a while. He kissed her and climbed into bed beside her. She had never shooed him away since the incident, as would have been her right, certainly, and he had not been at all desirous to be apart from her. "What are you reading?"

"_A Midsummer Night's Dream_."

"You have not read it?"

"It was my first Bard, actually. But I haven't read it since childhood. I thought a man with the head of an ass was the most amusing thing in the world, at the time."

"And now?"

"And now, what?"

"What do you think is the most amusing thing the world?"

"I could tell you, but it might insult your considerable dignity."

"So you mean _me_, with the head of a donkey. And perhaps opiated and saying ridiculous things. Or drunk and punching people."

His wife laughed. He could not remember when it made him feel better, like a weight off his chest. "I love you," he said, "and I might venture a strange guess that your mother may have not said something too terrible."

"On the contrary. She might have even been encouraging. It was so bizarre, it was hard to tell. You may have to get Jane's opinion for any perspective."

"Your mother? Are you sure it wasn't Mrs. Reynolds in Mrs. Bennet's dress?"

Lizzy giggled again. "Stop insulting my mother. She was very comforting."

"Then I owe her a great debt. Perhaps I should marry one of her daughters."

* * *

Despite all of the attention, despite her husband's loving diligence, Elizabeth did not return to her own self, and only seemed to brighten in private, in front of her sister Jane, and playing with Geoffrey. Darcy could not admit that the wind had also been knocked from his own emotions, but society dictated that they recover, and move on. Unfortunately, he privately suspected that would only happen when she was pregnant again, or something happened to distract her. Despite his best efforts, he could not provide the first.

Three months later, providence provided the second, when a letter from Mary Bennet arrived.

Next Chapter – Dark Clouds at Brighton


	2. Dark Clouds at Brighton

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

* * *

Chapter 2 – Dark Clouds at Brighton 

Darcy happened to be coming down the main steps when the doors opened for Jane Bingley, and though she did not look particularly distressed, he crossed by the servants and bowed to her himself. "Mrs. Bingley."

"Mr. Darcy," she curtseyed. "I've come to speak with my sister."

"She's in her study. I assume all is well?"

"Yes. It's merely some conversation," she said, and it struck him as a bit odd, but he would not inquire as to what it was.

He did not have to anyway, with his son bounding down the steps and nearly sliding across the marble, so much so that Darcy had to catch him by his jacket before he slammed into Jane entirely, which was probably his intent. "What did I tell you about running down the stairs?"

"Don't!" his son simply said, squirreling out of his grasp and running to grab his aunt by her leg, which was about as high as he could go. "Auntie!"

"My darling nephew," she said. "I fear you're getting too heavy for your poor aunt to pick up. And you should listen to your father more often. You might hurt yourself."

"He should," said Darcy with a mock-indignant posture, and his son simply giggled at him and put his hand in his mouth. "But he doesn't. He takes after his mother."

"I have no doubt of that. Oh, I should have brought Georgie, but the business is too quick, and she was asleep. Well, you'll see her at church on Sunday, won't you, Geoffrey?"

"Kirk!" he said, and looked at his father, almost hiding behind Jane's dress as he did so.

"Yes, yes, I'm so thrilled at your love of Scottish vocabulary. Now, Mrs. Bingley, unless you would like Geoffrey to accompany you, he and I have an appointment – "

"No!" Geoffrey clung to his aunt's legs. "He has a scary face."

"It's a wart, and there's nothing you can do about it," Darcy said, then clarified to his sister-in-law, "His tailor. Has a bump on his nose. And it's _very improper to say anything about it_."

"That's very right," she said, looking down at Geoffrey's scowl. "And you shouldn't judge people by their appearances. They might think you a dour man with a permanent scowl who doesn't like balls very much."

"I fear I'll never live down Meryton," Darcy said, scooping up his son, and still managing to bow. "Mrs. Bingley."

"Mr. Darcy."

He did not inquire unto her further; there were other things on his mind, like keeping his son's mouth shut during the whole fitting, as he was constantly outgrowing his clothing. Maybe some sort of glue was the answer.

* * *

Elizabeth Darcy's "study" was impressive, beyond just the idea that she had one, and it was not a sitting or drawing room. It had a desk and a chair and lots of legal books that she had not the slightest intent on perusing but were important to making it a proper _study_. As Mistress of Pemberley, she was not without her business, but certainly nothing that a writing table couldn't handle, but this was not her want and _Mr._ Darcy made sure that every one of her wants and needs were taken care of. Also, he desperately needed her out of his. And so she was sitting, reading an old epic with language that she could barely understand but was big and fascinating all the more and would not sit properly on her lap when Jane entered the room. "Jane! I was not expecting you."

"No." Jane didn't look harried, but she did shut the door, and there was something to her countenance that changed when it was firmly shut and they were in privacy. "What a lovely room."

"Yes. But not very good for chatting." She was referring to the lack of couches, but Jane made her way to a gentlemen's sitting chair anyway and passed her a letter. "From Mary."

"For you?"

"My eyes only."

Elizabeth did not question further. She read through the letter, which was brief, before sitting and beginning to conjure the proper words. Mary, who was studying in a seminary just outside of Paris, had returned to England, or was to when the letter was written, by means of a ship that would take her to Brighton first, where she had arranged lodgings, and she wanted to see Jane alone. The obvious question of why she would not come home through Town and then go straight on to Hertfordshire was the obvious first puzzlement, the second being why she wanted Jane alone and in the strictest confidence.

"Why me, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth pondered before answering, "Perhaps because you are the most understanding of the five of us."

"Why would that make any difference?" Before Elizabeth could offer a suggestion, she added, "Perhaps she came home ill, and is Brighton for its healing qualities. She could stay with the Fitzwilliams."

"Then she would merely say so. Clearly she is in some sort of trouble."

"Lizzy! This is _Mary_ we're talking about. Not Kitty or Lydia – "

"Nonetheless."

Jane could not find the words to contradict her. "Please, you must go with me."

"That would be directly contrary to our sister's request, I believe."

"I do not think it unreasonable that you accompany to Brighton. She only specifies that I meet with her first. That you happen to be in town with me will only be a happy coincidence," Jane said. "And she must see is all in turn, eventually. So it will be most convenient."

"Jane," Lizzy smiled, "you can be very devious when you wish to be."

"Lizzy!"

"But I will say no more on the subject," she said, standing up. "I simply must tell my husband that I am absconding to Brighton, perhaps to see the Fitzwilliams, who I have been very lax in visiting despite being my cousins."

"And he will believe it?"

"Hardly. But he will not put up a fuss." She closed the letter. "Besides, now that we are safely married, we can finally go to Brighton without any fear of great disaster."

It took Elizabeth a long while before she was sure she had misspoken.

* * *

A gruff Darcy reluctant to part with his wife and an overeager son reluctant to part with his mother made getting into the carriage unbelievably difficult. "For the last time, you cannot go _this time_," she said to her son, who was kicking the dust up around her in frustration. "There will be many times for us to travel to Brighton if you are so eager to go." Not that Brighton had anything to do with it.

Geoffrey Darcy huffed and looked up for help at his father, who replied with a shrug, "She won't let me go, either. It seems she is the master of us both." Knowing his son would not catch the subtlety, he merely patted him on head.

Jane's parting was easier, mainly because Georgiana Bingley did not say anything, because she had not yet spoken her first words. She seemed to understand everyone properly, and several doctors had been called to test her hearing, which was fine, but for whatever reason, she was holding back her words. She did cry a bit when she was taken out of her mother's arms, but Bingley managed to shush her as he kissed his wife good-bye. "Write us."

"I doubt we will be there long enough to pen a letter," she assured him. "And don't forget her cough medicine."

"Right."

"And her nighttime story."

"Of course."

"And the little blanket she likes, even though it's too small for her now. I brought it from Kirkland, didn't I?"

"Yes, dear."

She kissed her daughter on the cheek. This was her first major separation from her children. The twins were staying at Kirkland while Bingley and Georgie kept Darcy company at Pemberley. "And don't let your father and uncle destroy the house while we're gone."

"I did manage to keep Pemberley up as a bachelor for some years," Darcy said defensively.

"But you didn't have Geoffrey to chase around," Elizabeth said, and she did mean _chase_. Her son was good-natured, but no one was going to deny that he was a bit on the wild side, which brought Mr. Bennet no end of amusement when she would let her father go on about how she had been as a child. "I think he shall keep you quite busy, husband."

But it was time to be going, if they were to make it somewhere decent by nightfall. As they waved good-bye from the road in front of Pemberley's great steps, Darcy said, "I don't know why I have the riotous one. You're the wild Irishman."

"I'm going to ignore that insult, and say one thing to you – _karma_."

Darcy looked blank. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Because your knowledge of Eastern literature is restricted to two books," he said, and walked into the house.

"Bingley? Bingley, you get back here and explain what you just said!"

* * *

The carriage ride was not a lovely discussion of sisterly things, because it was long, stuffy, and bumpy. By the time they finally arrived at Brighton, both sisters were tired and the sun was going down. Their first disconcerting discovery that despite their announced intentions to be guests at the Fitzwilliams and their explanation by letter of their sudden presence, Mary Bennet had made no call upon the Fitzwilliams, if she was there at all. It was fair in that she did not know them well, being only distant relations, but it also meant she was staying elsewhere, and they could not imagine who else she would call on. This concern was expressed when they were finally settled in the parlor and given tea and snacks. Both were nauseas from the ride, and not eager for the grand meal that was offered by their hosts.

And it was most eagerly offered. Colonel Fitzwilliam had always been a bright and kind fellow, but marriage had been good to him, because his face had an ever-present shine. More striking, though, was Mrs. Anne Fitzwilliam (nee de Bourgh), who looked – by her own set of standards – radiant, and by a normal person's standards, healthy and almost normal. The sea air (and perhaps being out from under her mother's own stifling presence, though Elizabeth held her tongue on that) had done wonders for her as it had so many other people. While she was not a robust woman by any means, she was not the trembling mouse of a girl that Elizabeth Bennet had met at Rosings, nearly four years prior.

"Our only regret," Anne said as tea was poured, "is that we are so terribly far from everyone. Perhaps not Derbyshire, but certainly Kent and Town, and we so little of everyone. You must tell us everything – of course, if you have time. Though perhaps I do not fully understand the matter at hand."

"Neither do we," Elizabeth fully admitted. "And now it seems, we must go searching about the town for word of Mary, because she has not called on you or given us her address, and we have no other relatives here."

"But you cannot go out tonight," Colonel Fitzwilliam said with some amount of male authority. "It is already late and you are exhausted, and you do not know Brighton's streets. Surely, it must wait until morning."

"I fear I do not have the energy to contradict you, Colonel," Elizabeth said. "Two days of riding has taken it right out of me."

"And yet I heard, once, you challenged Darcy's record by riding all the way from Scotland," he countered.

"Oh G-d, yes," she said, the memory painful at its ridiculousness and the days she had been laid up because of it, excluding all of the events surrounding it. "But I have no wish to speak of _that_."

"Then you are just like your husband. And I am one to judge."

"You are three years older than Darcy, correct?" Jane asked.

"Yes, and it seems I was charged with keeping Darcy and Wickham in line when we played together. Or preventing them from doing stupid things. I failed on all accounts expect for the fact that they are at least both alive and have all their limbs."

"Maybe it's not all from your side after all," Jane whispered to her sister, who giggled.

Elizabeth's response was cut off by the door bell.

"At this hour?" Colonel Fitzwilliam rose and went to the door of their modest Brighton home. It surprised almost no one that it was Mary Bennet, looking a little shabby from all the traveling and just a little ill. "Miss Bennet."

"Colonel Fitzwilliam. I hope I'm not intruding – "

"Not at all. We were sort of expecting you, actually, though perhaps not this very night – but we are all very glad to see you. Your sister is here, along with Mrs. Darcy."

"Mary!" Jane said, running to great her sister. "It is so good to see you."

"And you." Mary was not nearly so exuberant, but that was in her character and surprised no one. In fact, she looked half-terrified, and nodded to her other sister. "Elizabeth."

"I am sorry for intruding," Elizabeth said. "Jane was intending to seek you out on her own, but I insisted on accompanying her."

"Of course," was all Mary could say. "I – I am not at all surprised."

This was not the Mary they knew. Though lacking the confidence of her elder sister, Mary was not without her own self-esteem, and was usually at the ready to sermonize about something. But now she was not, shifting her weight around, looking very much like she was at a tribunal – which was honestly not far from the truth, as she could not expect to not explain her circumstances.

"Mary," Jane said, in her usual warm tones, "I am very happy to see you safely home, but I would kindly inquire what I am doing in Brighton. If Papa knew you were in England – "

"Papa will know I'm in England," Mary said. "We will tell him at once. But you will understand why I did not want to see him first when I explain the circumstances. For I know he sent me to the Continent unattended expecting only the most pious behavior of me - "

The elder sisters exchanged glances, and Jane continued, "Yes. Now, what has happened?"

"Nothing. I mean, to say, nothing _can_ happen, and it as an awful, awful thing for me to have been distracted by my studies so – "

" – but you met a man," Elizabeth said. Because, she could not think of anything else, with Mary standing before them, unharmed. They could think of nothing else. If she had been somehow thrown from school – and there was no reason to believe she would be, as all of the reports were most excellent – then Mr. Bennet would have gotten a letter from the dean and that would have been the end of the matter.

Mary covered her mouth with her hands, as if to muffle her own words, ashamed of them as she obviously was. "Yes."

"And – it was a hindrance on your studies?"

"Quite the opposite. I was – his tutor. And to be a tutor, you must do some work to prepare, so actually I was learning quite a bit – "

"You were _his _tutor?" Jane said in shock.

"Yes. The Headmistress said, I was doing so well, and perhaps I could do some tutoring on the side, to pick up a little money – Oh, not that Papa was being ungenerous. He was being _too_ generous. Surely you know what I mean?"

"Of course," Elizabeth assured. "Do go on."

"And so, I tutored some girls, but there was a young man who needed to perfect his Latin, and I thought, perhaps if we met only in public, this would not be a terrible impropriety – and this was in France, so – "

"So it was not," Jane said, because Mary was having trouble. Anne and her husband had long disappeared, and she helped her sister to the couch, so she could settle, because Mary was trembling. "And you have feelings for him?"

"I – I do not know. Yes, I suppose," Mary said. "The feeling around Giovanni may have been stronger, when we were in France. He was studying abroad – he is Italian. But I am not a fool to go boundlessly declaring me love." So, Mary still had it in her to be dismissive of the expressions of others. It was almost relieving to see the old Mary, not the person before them, who was so remarkably different, so ashamed of her old feelings. "But the situation is untenable. I cannot marry him. Papa would never approve, and he is promised to the church. His family expects nothing less of him than a red hat. They have already bought him a bishopric, if he would only complete his studies and take it."

Admittedly, the idea of Mary living in Italy with this man – Giovanni, apparently – was not ideal to either sister present, and Mr. Bennet would not settle for anyone but someone from the British Isles, for any number of reasons. They would likely not attend the wedding or see her again, unless their husbands decided to travel abroad and take them with them, and with one of them constantly pregnant or nursing, it was unlikely. So Mary was right in that her situation was problematic. If Mary was truly in love, it was hard to tell, but she was right in that she was not one to go bounding about, announcing it, so they could only guess how she truly felt for this man.

"Mary," Jane said, a hand on her shoulder. "Where is he now, this – "

"Giovanni. Mr. Ferretti, if I am to be formal and English about it. He has gone back to Italy, with no intention to return to France."

"So he rejected you?"

"No, hardly. But as I said – he was promised to the church. The Papist church."

Elizabeth sighed. Jane was quicker, not in wit but in finding something comforting to say, "Then there is nothing you can do. I know it seems impossible now, but surely there will be some other man who is English who will find in you the same qualities he did so special that he will propose to you and you will be married, and this all forgotten."

Mary responded by breaking out into wracking weeping, and her sisters protectively sat on each side and rubbed her shoulders. "Mary – "

"No," she said between sobs. "It is so much worse than that."

"To be sorely in love – "

"Again, no, you are wrong," Mary said. "That is not all. I am carrying his child."

Next Chapter - The Sad Tale of Mary Bennet


	3. The Sad Tale of Mary Bennet

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

* * *

Chapter 3 – The Sad Tale of Mary Bennet 

It was a long time before anyone could say anything. It was Jane, ever trusting, and ever thinking the very best of everyone's actions and intentions, who blurted out, "You are sure?"

"Quite. So very sure." Mary sniffled, trying to compose herself. "All of my supposed piety was for nothing, because I am nothing but a whore."

"Mary!" Elizabeth said. "You are no such thing. You are an innocent, and he seduced you."

"I will not lie to myself or anyone else. As ... persuasive ... as he may or may not have been, he did not force himself upon me, and had I known, I could have refused to see him but in public, or refused outright the offer, as I should have done – "

"But we can only think the best of our sister and the worst of him," Jane said, some curtness in her voice, not necessarily directed at Mary. "Did you tell him?"

"Yes."

"And he still left you?"

"What was he to do? Take me home as his bride? He ... offered some money, but I did not accept."

"Then you are not a whore," Elizabeth said. "You do not fit the definition. You were – are – an innocent girl, who was cruelly taken advantage of – "

"No! I will not absolve myself of my own failings, or allow anyone else to do so!" her sister replied with surprising indignation. "The problem is mine. I called on you, Jane, because I had to see someone before I saw Papa. Surely now you understand, because he will cast me out – "

"He will not cast you out – "

"He cast Lydia out!"

"Lydia did not – ," But suddenly even Elizabeth found it very hard to argue that Lydia had not done anything so scandalous, or at the very least, was presenting obvious evidence of it. Finally she found her words. "Lydia did what she did wantonly, and made a fool of herself in the process. You are trying to do precisely the opposite."

"You are being kind," Mary said, "but I cannot right this wrong. Papa has ever right to send me to a nunnery and put the baby on some orphanage doorstep!"

She leaned on Jane's shoulder, who replied with urgency, "How far are you along?"

"Three months."

The gravity of the situation – already in high evidence – came down like a weight upon them. "Three months?"

"I didn't know – how was I to know? And then we debated what to do about it, and we tried going to a doctor – "

"_You didn't_," Elizabeth said. But now she was forced to imagine the desperation of her sister, all alone in France with a probably unhelpful companion, if she had tried to find a doctor – could they really do that? There _was_ a question she would never ask Doctor Maddox.

"I did. I mean, the most horrible deed was already done, or so it seemed, and there was no way to wait it out in France – not when I was expected home in the summer." Mary was crying again. "Please tell me at least one of you will take me in when Papa refuses to ever see me again."

"He will not," Jane said. "He will be very cross at first, but he will recover, and we will sort this out."

"But Jane," Mary said, "there is nothing to sort!"

Unfortunately, no one could find a way to tell her she was wrong.

* * *

The Darcys had very good mattresses, with proper springs. Unfortunately, this provided an ample amount of ability to bounce, something Darcy found his son was quite ready to take advantage of. He rolled over, squinting in the (undoubtedly very) early morning light, as his eyes focused on the image of Geoffrey Darcy, still in his bed clothes, jumping up and down on Lizzy's side of the mattress with such ferocity to shake the whole bed. Whether he intended it to take his father – or cared whether it did or didn't – was not obvious from his expression. 

"Geoffrey," he said in the most commanding voice he could muster, which at that particular moment, was not very commanding, "come here."

His son finally stopped jumping, and crawled over to his father as if he expected some kind of joyous celebration of his achievement.

"Now, son, allow me to explain this to you in the best way that I can at this hour in the morning and while I hold back my desire to thrash you," Darcy said. "It is considered _very improper_ to enter your father's private chambers uncalled."

"But these are _mother's_ chambers!"

Darcy put his head back into the pillow and groaned. His son was technically correct. Darcy was so used to sleeping in Elizabeth's chambers that the habit tended to continue even in her very seldom absences. "While you are technically correct, I will say that the same holds true for your mother's chambers. In fact, _especially_ for your mother's chambers."

His son cocked his head and said curiously, "Why do you always say _improper_?"

"Because a gentleman is expected to always act in the most proper of manners. And believe it or not – and at this moment, I do find it a bit hard to believe – one day you will be a gentleman, and it will be expected of you."

"Do I have to be a gentleman?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Darcy sighed because he knew already where this would lead – down the endless road of whys. He would have to think of something very clever to avoid it, and he was not in the mood to be clever. He was in the mood to call for Nurse to take his son out of the room by his collar and go back to sleep. "Because."

This was thoroughly confusing to Geoffrey, who stood towering over his father. In fact, he actively climbed onto his chest and said, "Just - because?"

"Yes. Just because. See, I can give one-word answers, too!" He grabbed his son, who was very heavy now, but he was still able to lift him. "Now stop vexing your father so early in the morning!" He added as he set him down, "And don't ask if you can do it any other time of day. See, I knew you were going to say that. Your father is very wise."

Geoffrey did sit down on the bed, at least temporarily. "Are you smarter than me?"

"I hope not. Perhaps you will not make all of the stupid mistakes I've made in my life. None of which you are old enough to hear, so don't ask."

"Are you smarter than mother?"

"No," Darcy said. "Definitely, definitely not. I think my whole life will be her outwitting me."

"Are you smarter than Uncle Bingley?"

"Are you going to go down the list of everyone you know and just ask how of I think of myself to them?"

"Yes."

"Then do you want to sit inside all day and practice your reading instead of going outside and playing with Georgiana?"

His son was horrified. "No!"

"Then I suggest you cease this line of conversation and let me sleep!"

Geoffrey hopped off the bed and scurried out of the room with exceptional speed, even for him. Darcy let out a contented sigh and stared at Elizabeth's empty pillow. "It's from your side of the family, you know," he said, and turned back on his other side.

But he did not, in fact, go back to sleep. Before long the rooster was crowing, and he was slowly drifting in and out until his regular time for waking. Since his marriage, the servants no longer came in and opened the curtains for him, especially when he slept in his wife's room, so he had to do it himself and ring the bell for his manservant.

Pemberley was quiet – uncomfortably quiet. It was still quite early, and there was no sign of his only two guests, or his son, but that was not to be expected, and he took his regular breakfast and was lost in the morning paper when Nurse came in screaming. "Oh G-d! I promise, I promise, I'll get it off!"

"What?" he said, thoroughly confused, and still in the middle of his food.

"Mr. Bingley – he's not awake. I'll get it all off before he wakes, I promise!"

He swallowed and said calmly, "_What_ off?"

She could not explain; she was too flummoxed. She insisted instead that he follow her quickly and quietly to the nursery, as to not wake their guest. And there he found little Georgiana Bingley, giggling happily.

In a tub full of ink.

"I – I don't know how it happened, Master Darcy, I swear!"

But Darcy already had a fair idea of what had occurred, and was busier mentally debating how to maneuver it so that he was in full view of Bingley's face when he saw his daughter.

* * *

By the morning, the three Bennet sisters – former and current – had come to one conclusion. The discretion of the Fitzwilliams, who had hosted them, could be trusted. They deserved an explanation for all of the disruption, and it was only with their solemn promise that not a word of this would be uttered to anyone that they returned to their carriages. Obviously, time was of the essence. The only question was if Mary should ride, in her "condition," but they decided that she had no other option. For the moment, they would go to Pemberley, and decide on a course of action from there. 

Mary said almost nothing. She had, Elizabeth imagined, the ground out from under her, having always stood on a high moral ground. Her own chances for a good marriage – or a marriage at all – were utterly ruined. Kitty's chances could be salvaged, but not until the scandal blew over. After all, Longbourn had suffered one scandal and emerged with two extremely advantageous marriages and a settlement over the estate, though the later was not commonly known. But Mary, surely now, would have to be satisfied with being a lonely mother, provided something more drastic wasn't done.

"You don't think – with all due respect – Mr. Darcy won't say anything about this?" Jane whispered when Mary was out of earshot.

Elizabeth sighed. True, her husband was a severely proper man, adverse to any scandal. However, he was also intolerably good at covering them up. "If he does, I will make it known that I am _severely_ disappointed in him, and that will be enough to shut him up for this entire affair."

But her husband was not disapproving. Not at first, when they at last climbed out of the carriage at the grand doorsteps of Pemberley. After all, they did not know the story, and Mary was not showing. But Darcy and Bingley, holding their children, also had the most adorably hapless look on their faces, that Elizabeth had no doubt was well-practiced.

"So there is a very good explanation – "

" – a perfectly_, perfectly_ good explanation - ," Bingley broke in.

" – as to why our children are blue."

For indeed, they were.

Geoffrey Darcy and Georgiana Bingley were properly dressed to greet their parents, looking scrubbed and proper, except for the fact that their skin and hair were soundly a deep shade of blue. They looked like some sort of alien species, and themselves offered no explanation as they broke free and ran to their mothers. Sometime when they were done laughing, Elizabeth and Jane were able to properly greet them. It felt so good to be happy at something ridiculous, after the torturous ride of worries, that Elizabeth had to recover some before she could properly approach her husband with a look that demanded everything.

"Well, since it happened first to – "

"Darcy, _your_ son started it. Don't you dare try to implicate me in this!" Bingley demanded.

"Charles," Jane said in her very patient, loving, and deadly voice. "Where were you when ... this occurred?"

"...Sleeping."

"Only the first time," Darcy corrected. "Not the second."

"How was I to know there would be a second time?"

"Will someone _please_ provide your promised explanation?" Elizabeth said. "Oh, and my sister, of course."

Their husbands bowed. "Miss Bennet."

"Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley," she said shyly.

"How was your – "

"Don't try to distract us," Elizabeth cut in. "I will go as far as to say I am, for the moment, more concerned with my Zulu-like son than my sister."

"We did try to scrub them," Bingley offered. "I mean, _really_ tried."

"It hurt," said Geoffrey, pointing to his father. "He hurt me. And made me sit in the corner."

Darcy shrugged unapologetically at his son's comments.

The whole story did come out, after much questioning and demanding of specifics. It seemed that Geoffrey had crept into Georgiana's early morning bath and dumped a bottle of ink in the water, and Georgie had been most amused at the concept and gotten it all over the top half of her body before Nurse returned, all while Bingley enjoyed the sound sleep only the father of two squalling infants who were now three miles away could enjoy. If that hadn't been enough, Georgie had gotten her revenge the next day, doing the same to the bucket of water to be dumped on Geoffrey in his tub. After so much panicked scrubbing that their children cried that their skins were raw and pained, Mrs. Reynolds intervened and said the ink would fade – in time.

"A few weeks," Darcy said.

"Oh goodness," was all Jane could say.

Bingley and Darcy exchanged confused glances; why their wives found it more amusing and delightful than horrifying was beyond them. And then they were both taken aside and told the more pressing situation, in private, so Mary did not have to endure it. After all, she was now expectant, and had to be handled most carefully as an expectant woman.

Darcy listened to the tale in his study, as Mary sat with the children outside. He said nothing during the whole recitation, though his face did go through a series of expressions, none of them particularly unexpected.

"So," she said at last, announcing she was finished.

"And – he's in Italy, this Mr. – "

"His proper name is Mr. Mastia-Ferretti, I believe. Or, I suppose, Signor Mastia-Ferretti."

"And he's younger than her?"

"By four years, yes."

Clearly pondering, he asked, "Where in Italy does he hale?"

"Sin – Senigallia. But Mary believes him to be in Rome now, finishing his education." Elizabeth made her own logical conclusions. "He is surely unreachable."

"Mr. Bennet can write, if he wishes, but our Mr. Ferretti could simply choose not to respond. And, considering his actions forthwith, I would not see it beyond the range of possibility."

"Then there is nothing to be done."

Darcy said nothing.

"Darcy, she's my sister."

"That I know," he said, not uncaringly. "But there is an order for things. Her father cannot be unknowing in this."

"Then you _do_ have a plan."

"There is only one I can think of, Lizzy. Surely you have thought of it yourself."

"It is out of the realm of possibility, surely."

"As far as family is concerned, nothing is out of the realm of possibility." But that was all he was willing to say for the moment.

* * *

The five of them now had the first obstacle in front of them – to go to Longbourn, and give Mr. Bennet the news in his own home as he deserved when his own daughter disgraced his family, or to keep her in Derbyshire and invite him there in the efforts to avoid the scandal for some time, as might be possible if she stayed there instead of returning to Hertfordshire. Bingley immediately offered up Kirkland as a permanent lodging for Mary, and Darcy, who was his usual quiet self, did not challenge him, though he did mention in passing that she could stay at Pemberley if she wished. Mary declared no preference, so Kirkland it was to be. 

"Perhaps we should call on Maddox," Bingley said to Darcy in confidence. "To ... I don't know, assess things."

"He is not the only doctor in England, Bingley! And he would undoubtedly come with Caroline."

"So what if he does? We cannot avoid the extended family knowing the whole of it for long, and as she is now related to Miss Bennet, she has almost as much interest in avoiding the scandal as we do. So no harm done there."

Bingley had a point. Besides, if she was to see a doctor, it had best be the one least likely to tattle. "Fine. But first, Mr. Bennet."

"Oh dear G-d, never did I fear our father-in-law so."

"He has no reason to be cross with us. That is, provided we hide the children from him, and even if we don't, he'll hardly be concerned. Might even find it amusing. In fact, it might put him in good humor for the very bad news."

"You have a point."

"So that is the plan, then. He will see his grandchildren. And _then_ Miss Bennet."

"Poor Mary."

Darcy gave him a look.

"How can you be so hard on her, even in private? It's not _her_ fault."

"Unlike your own Calvinist leanings, I _do_ believe in free will, Bingley."

"That is not to say she wasn't taken advantage of. Even if she thinks she wasn't. With ... cultural differences and such. You've been to the Continent – you know they all think we're stuck up Englishmen with no romantic nature whatsoever. And for good reason."

"I never said I had no romantic nature."

"But people have thought it of you. I've _said_ it to you, in so many words."

"On that I will relent," Darcy grumbled.

"What are we to do, Darcy?"

"Simple," he said, as if it was. "I am to save yet another Bennet sister."

"And how to do you propose – _oh_. Well, I'm willing to help. She's my sister as well."

"And you have two nursing infants and a daughter who hasn't said her first words."

Bingley frowned. "Point taken. I do feel useless, then."

"You will be sheltering a young woman with child from considerable scandal. That is hardly the definition of 'useless.' In fact, I believe you will be quite busy for the next six months."

"Plus your child. Who, I imagine, will have us inked-skinned when the matter is done."

To that, Darcy had to hold back his response, as he decided, with all of the serious goings on, it wouldn't be proper to hit his brother-in-law in the face. Not again, anyway.

Next Chapter – Storm at Kirkland


	4. Storm at Kirkland

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

* * *

Chapter 4 – Storm at Kirkland 

Fortunately, as they were able to travel at greater speeds than the lumbering elder Bennets, who had not been informed of the cause of their invitation, Doctor and Mrs. Maddox arrived at Kirkland first. This was their first journey since returning to Town from their honeymoon, as the doctor's schedule kept him in London, and he seemed reluctant to take whatever salary was offered from Bingley. He had a townhouse, small but still far beyond his own means, as a gift. He would provide for his wife, though privately Charles wrote to his sister and said that if he worked himself ragged, she would start receiving checks from Kirkland anyway. And so Caroline Maddox had two dedicated men trying to satisfy her every want and need, and never looked more radiant, aside from a bit worn from the traveling. Upon their arrival, the doctor was quickly taken aside and informed they rather selfishly needed him to see Mary Bennet.

"Is she ill?"

They shrugged and pushed him in a room with Mary Bennet, a person whom he had never met, but was related to by marriage. On the other side of the door, the Bingleys and the Darcys waited. He took only a few minutes to reappear. "What do you want me to say? She's with child," he shrugged, apparently unhappy with the stares he was receiving. No, he knew the situation well enough. They wanted a magic answer, that she was along or he could – G-d forbid – _do something_ about it. But she was too far long, and he had never once revealed the medicinal knowledge necessary in the two cases where it _had_ been possible. "About three months. Or, if you want to go by her own recollection, three months and six days, and I am inclined to believe her." He swallowed, wanting to avoid any further questioning of how close the inspection had been. It hadn't been very close – it didn't need to be. He merely looked at the size of her belly and believed her on everything else. There was no reason to do otherwise. "I suppose the father is – "

"Gone."

"French?"

"Italian."

"He is run away to his home," Darcy said, not hiding his repulsion at the idea.

"He is promised to the church," Elizabeth said, partially countering it.

"Oh, dear," Maddox said. "Well, I'm sorry I can't be much help in this matter. I am not familiar with Derbyshire's offerings of mid-wives, and I am sure you are." He added, "I am very sorry for the uh ... circumstances, but there is nothing I can do, beyond being a supportive relation, if you wish the support."

That was not the answer they were looking for, and he knew it. So he did what he thought was best, which was to flee the room and let them think it over. He went to his chambers, which were now for the first time with Caroline, who was already there.

"I know," she said as he put his bag down and shooed the servant away. "Horrible, isn't it?"

But she did not see horrible in the way that Caroline Bingley would normally say _horrible_. There was, instead, a hint of sadness. Sympathy pains, perhaps? He could not imagine. He was just beginning to understand the whole of the situation himself. Clearly, they hadn't told Mr. Bennet yet, and were still devising their strategy, to lessen the blow to Mary. There was a great amount of love in this family, even for one who had so soundly ruined her life when she was entrusted with it by being sent to study abroad. It was best to assume he had just taken advantage of her, whoever this Italian was, but they both knew love was more complicated than that. Mary, as pious as she obvious was, refused to implicate him, taking the blame all unto herself, and that was bad for her health – and the health of the baby. Maybe that was the real reason he was called – to be a buffer between her and her father. This musing he expressed out loud.

"You really think so?"

"I have no idea, honestly. But they are keeping her here perhaps because she is ill to travel, or because they want to avoid the scandal as long as possible. Doesn't she have a younger sister still unmarried?"

"Catherine. They call her Kitty. A flirtatious girl if I ever met one."

"So, like you."

She smiled severely at him. "I did not know you considered me a girl."

"Hardly. But – and I mean this in the most positive way – you were flirtatious. So much so, you could not avoid the habit even around the poor servant of Mr. Hurst."

"And how lucky I was in that. But I cannot imagine the same for Mary. Poor girl."

Was this the same Caroline is he had courted and married? He had to wonder. There was something almost _motherly_ in her tone.

Maybe this wouldn't turn out so badly after all.

* * *

The three Bennets were called to Derbyshire without any knowledge of what they were to encounter. Even though they arrived hot from an early spring heat wave and exhausted from the bump of a long carriage ride, they had to cock their heads at the site of two wild African-painted children running to greet them. "Grandfather!" said the boy who, from his proper dress and general disposition, was undoubtedly Geoffrey Darcy, despite his coloration.

He lifted his arms up with the expected to be lifted, to which a very patient and confounded Mr. Bennet said, "I'm afraid you are getting a bit big and your grandfather is getting a bit old in the back for that." To which Geoffrey frowned but still grabbed his legs enough to make him stumble a bit, only to be caught by Kitty. Mrs. Bennet was no help, because she was busy attempting to pick up who she assumed was the silent Georgiana Bingley.

"My goodness! How did we raise our children, Mr. Bennet?"

"I'm not quite sure who is responsible for this, but I may venture that our grandchildren may, in fact, shoulder some of the blame. Or all of it." He looked at Geoffrey sternly, but it was a very hard to composure to maintain when facing off with a boy whose skin was the shade of berries. "Lizzy?" For his daughter had appeared at the front door, chasing after the children, who had run out at the sight of the carrier. Her own expression was not so pleasant. He immediately patted his grandson on the head and turned his attentions to his favorite daughter. "Lizzy, whatever is the matter?"

* * *

Despite all of their advice otherwise, Mary insisted on telling on telling Mr. Bennet herself, with him sitting down in Bingley study and receiving her properly as if it were Longbourn. Darcy shrugged privately at Elizabeth's harsh look at this turn of events, saying only in a hushed voice, "It is only right. I would expect nothing less of my own children."

So, behind closed doors, Mary Bennet told the entire story. Or, she could have told him complete hogwash, because no one would venture close enough to the door to listen in. Bingley tried to, but his wife held him back. The Maddoxes, their presence for the moment unannounced, were hiding upstairs. So it was left to Elizabeth and Jane to tell their mother in the sitting room.

"Ruined! She's ruined!" Mrs. Bennet cried, and they said nothing, because it was an accurate assessment. "Oh, we never should have sent her to that dreadful country. All of that time – only to be taken advantage of by some – some Papal rogue! And now he cannot be found!" She called for another handkerchief, having used up her current stash of them. "Kitty, you are ruined as well! Oh, we should have married you to that officer!"

"Mama!" Kitty looked to her sisters for help.

"Kitty," Jane said, sitting down next to her sister protectively. "All is not lost."

"For Mary, it is. She will die an old maid now. No man in England will have her," Mrs. Bennet said. "Oh, Mary!" Even though she wasn't in the room, but that was irrelevant. She was, at the moment, enduring Mr. Bennet's rarely-used but considerable censure, surely. "Oh, thank goodness this did not happen at Longbourn, or all the neighbors would be talking. Oh, but they will soon enough! Oh, Mary!"

The last time Mrs. Bennet had wept over a sister, her daughters were had a serious of emotions, most of which were anger towards Lydia and Wickham. But Mary, by all appearances, had not acted wantonly, despite the obvious results. Her own self-admonishments only made her a more pathetic and helpless figure that they could not help but be protective of, even Mrs. Bennet, who was crying out for her daughter's desperate situation.

Her sobbing was only interrupted by the presence of Mr. Darcy, who was not noticed until he tapped on Lizzy's shoulder and whispered in her ear, "The door is open."

"Does Papa want to see anyone?"

"I believe it would be best if you were to see him. I've – called in the doctor."

"The doctor?"

He let her make her own assessment, as she ran into Bingley's study, where Doctor Maddox was taking Mr. Bennet's pulse. Her father was full of a barely-contained indignation as Mary slipped out of the room.

"Papa," Lizzy said, kneeling before him and taking his hands, which were shaking with rage.

"I do not need a doctor!" he said. "I have every reason to be furious."

Elizabeth looked at Doctor Maddox, who was looking at his pocket watch. When he was done with his count, he pulled away from his patient and said. "He is in a very agitated state."

"That I know!" said Mr. Bennet.

"Mr. Bennet, please do listen to Mrs. Darcy and take some deep breaths." With that, he bowed to him and took his leave, shutting the door behind him.

Mr. Bennet did not respond, but he did take a deep breath, and there was some silence in the room as he visibly regained his composure, or attempted to do so. "I do have every right as a father to make myself ill over this."

"As a father to Mary, perhaps. But not to the rest of us," she said gently. "Papa, please."

Mr. Bennet took one of his hands out of hers and used it to hold up his head. "What am I to do? I have ruined one of my daughters, sending her to France." He added quickly, "And don't bother me with the business of it being her own volition, because Mary tried to assign as much blame to herself as possible. She may be Out, but she my responsibility until the day she is married, and now it seems she never will be." When he looked up, there were tears in her eyes. "I have ruined her."

"Papa, you have not."

"If I'd only not let her go to France – "

"She took liberties there you did not know of – "

"But she seemed so sensible! Well, perhaps not sensible, but so religious! I thought the worst of it would be she would end up in a nunnery, and if that would make her happy, then ... so be it. I only wanted to see her happy." He have a sad smile. "I only wanted to see you all happy. I put you Out one after another, when it wasn't proper to do so. And I sent Lydia to Brighton. Oh god, if Darcy hadn't saved us all – "

"Papa, it is in the past."

"I know. I know." For once he seemed very old, and bumbling, and somewhat out of his senses. "Because even Darcy cannot save us now. Though, I thank G-d, Lizzy, you and Jane do not need saving, and Lydia is at least settled, and perhaps Kitty will survive, what with two older sisters who did well, and we shall not lose Longbourn. I have that solace, but so little it is. And even if I forgive Mary, as I will eventually manage to do, she will not forgive herself." He was now rather openly crying. "Lizzy, what am I to do?"

"I don't know," was her honest answer as she embraced him.

"Well, I suppose," he said, after training to regain his composure again, this time in a different way, "Mr. Bingley will take her in for the rest of her term and shelter us all for a time from the scandal. That may be enough time to marry off Kitty, or perhaps something else will come up. I find myself without an answer to our question. But now – I must discuss it with my sons-in-law, and I must be the properly angry father again. So, please, give me a moment, and send them in, will you, darling?"

"Of course, Papa." She kissed him on his forehead, and left the room. She needed a moment herself, before she could face the waiting crowd in the next room.

* * *

"I'm quite fine now," Mr. Bennet announced as his two sons-in-law and the physician entered the room. He shooed Maddox's attentions away, though he had clearly calmed now, if still not considerably angry. "Obviously, this is a situation with only one obvious remedy."

There was a long silence.

"I'm very sorry, but I can't go," Maddox announced.

"Daniel," Bingley said, "You had never even met Mary until this day. You can hardly be expected – "

"But I am the only one here beyond Mr. Bennet with a proficiency in Italian, and I spent a month of my life in Rome itself. So I would be the most logical choice, and Caroline would love to see the France. But she cannot travel ... right now."

"I don't see –," Darcy said, then stopped. "Were you ever going to tell us?"

"I left that up to her. After all, she has to do most of the work."

"My sister. Pregnant." Bingley was stupefied. "I don't know whether to throttle you or shake your hand, doctor."

"They _are_ married, Bingley," Darcy reminded him. "Out of curiosity, when does her confinement begin?"

"In three months."

"In three ...," Bingley had to sit down. "You bastard. You didn't tell us."

"I told you, I left it up to her, and you know how she likes grand announcements. The only reason I tell you now is out of necessity."

"So we will have too confinements at once," Mr. Bennet said, his mood not lifted. "Congratulations, doctor. Under different circumstances, I would be more generous in my compliments. But it seems I must go to Italy now."

"Mr. Bennet, with all due respect, you know you cannot," Darcy said.

"I am not dead yet, Mr. Darcy! Despite arrangements being made otherwise."

Darcy turned to Maddox. "Please tell Mr. Bennet he cannot go."

"I am not sick!" Mr. Bennet shouted, nearly deafening them all from the shock. They had never heard him shout before, or even raise his voice, even when he was being stern.

It was only after an appropriate silence that Maddox ventured, "With respect, Mr. Bennet, I would not advise such a journey."

"And I do not recall asking you!"

"I can't go," Bingley said. "For ... obvious reasons. I can hardly leave Jane with two infants."

"Of course," Darcy said. "I will be going." He stated it like it was an already known fact that they had merely overlooked.

"Mr. Darcy!" Mr. Bennet said indignantly.

"Darcy, I have to inquire how your languages are?" Bingley said.

"My French is inexcusably abominable and my Italian is non-existent, but that's what a translator is for, and I'm sure there's at least one in the entire Continent for hire. Besides, I am clearly the only one available. Geoffrey is old enough to be on his own for a few months, and Elizabeth has never had the pleasure of seeing the Continent. So it is decided."

"It is hardly decided!" Mr. Bennet said. "I have decided on nothing. It seems all the decisions are being made without me, and this is _my_ daughter, Mr. Darcy, not yours."

Darcy motioned to the others for privacy. He then sat down next to an infuriated Mr. Bennet, who seemed to be calming down when the room was quieter and he was digesting all of the information thrown at him.

"I will confess something to you, Mr. Bennet, if you would hear it."

"Is it about my grandchildren being blue?"

"Well, there is that, but this is more pertinent. One of the reasons I am making the offer of this considerable journey is for Elizabeth's sake. I think it would be good for her to get out after ...," even after these months, he could not bring himself to say it, and Mr. Bennet lay a hand on his.

"I had not even considered. You show a great deal of concern for Lizzy, Darcy. You have always impressed me with that. And I admit that perhaps my gallivanting across the Continent would not be ideal to my health. But I still cannot ask this of you."

"You do not have to ask."

Mr. Bennet sighed. He seemed to be coming to his senses, his fury exhausted, and now was sinking into a depression. "Is there any way I can repay you for all you have done for my family, Mr. Darcy?"

"Yes," Darcy said, rising to leave and tell the others the news. "You can do me the favor of marrying your remaining daughter off without my help."

... Nerxt Chapter – The d'Arcys of Normandy


	5. The d’Arcys of Normandy

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

* * *

Chapter 5 – The d'Arcys of Normandy 

Preparations began immediately for the Darcys to leave. Time was obviously of the essence, as it might cost two months to find Mr. Mastai-Ferretti, and then more time to either drag him back to England (unlikely) or send a letter with the news of finding him and awaiting its return. All in all, the Darcys imagined that they could be gone for several months, back hopefully in time for the births, which would probably be in weeks of each other.

"I will be honest with you," Darcy said to his father-in-law. "The best we can hope for is a considerable settlement, if his family is so inclined. As I understand he is only sixteen, he may not be entitled to his own monies. I am not sure the age of majority in Italy, offhand, and if he is already a priest, it would be even more complicated."

"That I've already realized," Mr. Bennet said. "Whether you wish to tell Lizzy this or not is your own discretion. I have no intention of telling anyone else the expected outcome."

So it was decided. Though Elizabeth was loathe to be separated from Geoffrey, who obviously could not travel with them without slowing them down considerably, he was almost three now, and Darcy assured her that he was quite old enough to be on his own for a bit, and that it might even do him some good. "We do have a general tendency to spoil him."

"And you think Bingley will not?"

He only smiled at her from behind his desk, where he was gathering the papers he thought he would need.

"You don't think there's any chance of having Mr. Ferretti return to England wish us, do you?" she said.

"No," he answered. "I will not incite unreasonable expectations. If we can even locate him in time, he will probably either have taken vows or be so intending to take him that our best hope is a settlement."

"He did offer her something in France."

"I imagine now that he is faced with her family, perhaps even throttling his collared neck, he will offer more," he said. "How much, I have no idea. The point is, we will not let this injustice pass by."

This answer she seemed satisfied by, and left him for the moment to return to her own packing. He had no further intrusion until there was a knock on the open door. "Come."

It was Mrs. Reynolds, not an unexpected face in the hurry of packing, as the Master and Mistress of Pemberley were to go on a long and unexpected journey. "Master Darcy."

"Mrs. Reynolds."

"I seem to recall – it's been some time since you've been to the Continent."

"Yes," he said. "I went only once, after college, and before my father's death. I was not particular enamored of it. Why do you ask?"

"I was just wondering – do you intend to stop at the mansion in Valognes?"

"The Rue des Capuchins?" It had been the old d'Arcy Estate, or so the history went, generations back, and had been held by very distant relatives of his until the Revolution, when they fled their home. Now it was taken by some imported English family with a military officer at the head, who had taken a liking to it while stationed there to fight Napoleon. He had been there for a few days in their company during his journey, and they held him in esteemed stature. "I suppose we would shelter there for a night or two. I admit to not having a formal itinerary at the moment, but if it is on the way, then yes." He thought about it. "Why do you ask?"

"Well – it's probably nothing, Master, but I do recall your father mentioning to senior Mr. Wickham that he had some financial papers there of some import. They may have been burned in the revolution, I don't know. I was just askin' if you know anything about it."

Darcy stopped his work for a second and looked up at her. "No. I mean, yes, there are piles and piles of old papers there going back centuries, because the mansion itself was not burned in any way when my relatives fled, but I did not peruse them while I was there, nor was I told to by my father." But come to think of it, that was before his father's death, and before his illness, so the young Master Fitzwilliam was given a year to explore and have fun before settling down to the serious matters of learning to be the real master of Pemberley and Derbyshire. So might not have mentioned it, or Darcy might have simply forgotten it and so had his father. "I suppose, if there is time, I will look into it. Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds."

She curtseyed and let herself out. It was not until he was returned to his sorting that the oddity of the conversation descended on him.

* * *

"I don't understand," Elizabeth said later that night, in their bedchamber. Or, properly, _her_ bedchamber. "Why do you find that so odd?" 

"Despite being the housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds is not involved in the financials of Pemberley," he explained. "Her knowledge extends to a certain idea of how much the servants beneath her in the house are paid, and at times, I have asked her advice on deciding on the salary of a new employee, as she is given the task of choosing certain ones herself, but I always make the decision and do not always tell her. The only way she would even know of what she spoke of is if she happened upon a conversation between my father and his steward, or if my father specifically told her for some reason that I cannot imagine. More to the point, I have never in my life been approached by Mrs. Reynolds about anything financial to my family. About hiring and firing hands, yes. But my father's personal accounts?" He shook his head. "It was just an odd thing for her to do."

"Are you saying there is something else to it?"

He smiled. "You are always a step ahead of me."

"I thought in some countries, wives walk two steps behind their husbands."

"Thank G-d then that we are not in one of those countries."

He climbed into bed with her, still temporarily dressed.

"Do you think it will be all right with Geoffrey? To leave him now?"

"We will not be gone so terribly long," he assured. "And he is certainly old enough. Who knows, it may do him some good."

"Are you implying something is wrong with our son?"

"Well, it's not from my side."

"I thought we established that it was?" She kissed him on the head. "Colonel Fitzwilliam implied that it was not, in fact, from the Bennet lineage, and that you were quite the savage in your days as a child."

"Clearly, then, I cannot allow you to visit my cousins again, because Richard is spreading bad rumors about me that are entirely untrue." He swallowed. "Or may be true. To some extent. Perhaps."

"_Perhaps_?"

"Perhaps. And that is all I will say on the matter."

As she settled down on her side of the bed, Elizabeth added, "You do not have to do this, you know. Just because of your history of being our family's white knight, you are not obligated to save Mary from her own stupidity."

"She is my sister, and therefore, I do feel the obligation. And I doubt I can 'save her' if that is what you mean. But this is for you as well, Lizzy. Surely you realize that. Since you have never been out of England – "

"I _have_ been to Scotland."

He smiled. " – Never been out of _Britain_, and are available to travel, why not? When will we have this opportunity again, even if our travels will be a bit rushed? I should think you would like to see some of the glorious sites – " but that was when he noticed the shift in mood, and the tears slipping out her eyes like stray water over glass. "Lizzy – "

But she leaned over, and could not back her sobs into his nightshirt. When others had cried over the situation with Mary, she had not. She had held it in, perhaps feeling some obligation to do so. But he knew very well it was not entirely Mary she was crying over. "I love you."

"That does not change it. It does not change why ... why I am so _available_."

He frowned, but she didn't see it, leaning on his shoulder as she was. He frowned because he didn't know how to answer her. "Lizzy, you have already given me everything I could ever want in my life. No more is required of you."

"Very well then. So my life is about giving to you? What about what _I_ want?"

That, he could not give her.

"We both – we both know you are perfectly fine," he said. "And that – it is only a matter of time. And the traveling will be good for everything, I believe. Good for us, good for Mary, good for Geoffrey ... Good for everyone. Can you not see that? That is why we are going, not to get money from some Italian bishop."

This, she seemed to at least her, because she pulled away from their tight embrace, and was no longer sobbing. "I'm sorry. I'm being a foolish girl."

"No, you are being a heartbroken woman, which is a very mature position to be in, and something all mothers must suffer, and all husbands have to apparently sit by helplessly and wish we could mend, but we can't. On this, I cannot be the white knight – though, I am willing to try very hard." He kissed her hand. "Lizzy."

She laughed, and the mood in the room changed. The heaviness was gone, at least for a time, as she wiped her eyes and kissed him. "And we have the added benefit that upon our return, our son will be his normal color."

"Or another one entirely."

* * *

Packed and ready as they would be, the Darcys returned to Pemberley, carrying Geoffrey's things, as he would be staying with his aunt and uncle, if very reluctantly. Normally happy to visit them, this time he had to be dragged out of Pemberley quite physically by his father and his nurse. But at last they did arrive, and the final preparations could be made, so they could depart to Town, and then take a ship to France from there. The route would vary based on information collected on the road, and a guide would be hired, so Darcy had his steward free up a good amount of cash. There was also getting all of the specifics of this man - Giovanni Maria Mastai-Ferretti – from Mary, as she knew them. He would likely be in Rome or in his home province of Sinigallia for the summer. Doctor Maddox noted that Rome itself was a hot, unpleasant city in the summer months and that most wealthy people retreated to villas elsewhere, often including the Pope himself. Mr. Bennet was not willing to let Mary out of his sight, and would stay at Kirkland, but Mrs. Bennet and Kitty would return to Longbourn until the Confinement, giving the appearance that all was well. The Maddoxes would also be in Town until Caroline's own Confinement and possibly during, as the good doctor was tied to London by his work. 

"Oh, Mr. Darcy, you are so good to us," Mrs. Bennet said. "And to Lizzy. Keep her safe on those roads."

"It will be my first duty, Mrs. Bennet."

Mary had one last thing for them – a rosary, obviously Catholic and not Anglican. "From him. If you need to prove who you are. I didn't ask for it – I don't use it – but he gave it to me." It was a fine item too, with a tiny silver Jesus on the cross, and the beads a beautiful red.

"Thank you, Miss Bennet," he said, and bowed to Mary.

And so three couples and two children departed for Town, as the Bingleys insisted on seeing the Darcys all the way to the wharf. And so, with many tearful good-byes, they were finally off, to Town at least, where there would be one last person to say good-bye too – Georgiana Darcy.

"You will take care," Darcy said to her, standing in their townhouse, as the last vestiges of business took some two days to contract. "And if anyone – "

"We will wait for your consent."

"Good girl." He kissed her on the head.

"So you have finally agreed that I may _eventually_ get married? Maybe Elizabeth has softened you, brother."

He smiled. "No, I just decided that I would not want your beautiful hair hidden under one of those horrible black nun habits."

"Now you are toying with me!"

"Perhaps. Do you wish me to get out my sword and have my manservant hold it up in front of you in my absence instead?"

"It would be more familiar, but no, Darcy."

It was then that Mrs. Maddox appeared. "Daniel will be on his way in a moment. But we wish to give you this, Darcy." She handed him a book, very small and old, with its title worm off from obvious use. He flipped it open, and found a stamp of the seal of the earldom of Maddox on the inside cover. It was a travel-sized book of Italian words and phrases, very light and usable. "He says he can no longer read the print, so it is as good as yours."

"I am honored," he said, knowing full well how much Doctor Maddox treasured his books and his eyesight, the latter of which was - as Darcy had been told privately - in slow deterioration.

The doctor did quickly appear, to wish them well, and give them a paper full of various contacts they could use and places to stay in France and Italy. "I don't know how good they'll be. They're a bit out-of-date. But if you use even one..." He shrugged. "I wish to be of more help than that."

"I think you are needed more here," Darcy said, patting him on the shoulder. "Good luck, doctor."

"I would say the same to you."

"But we mean it for different things. Now if you excuse us, our ship leaves at noon."

"Brother! Must you go _today_?" Georgiana begged.

"The sooner we leave, the sooner we will be home."

And so they said their good-byes, and took a carriage with the awaiting Bingleys to the wharf. "I expect you to be a proper gentlemen when I return," Darcy said to his son. "But I will not hold my breath, for my own sake."

His blue son scowled at him. "I want to go!"

"And one day, you will. But not today. It's not safe."

"If it's not safe for me, why is it safe for Mother?"

"Because your mother is one tough woman," he said, and noticed the glare from Elizabeth. "I meant it as a compliment!"

Elizabeth shook her head and shooed him away, kneeling so she was face-level with her son. "Be a good boy to your aunt and uncle. I know you have it in you, and they will be so worried for us, you should not tax them. Look at you," she said, straightening his hair, which was just a darker hue of blue from the rest of his body. "All grown up. And ... Martian." She hugged him. "And keep an eye on Georgie. She ... we worry about her."

"Why?" Geoffrey said.

"Because – she doesn't talk."

Her son's expression was bemused. "She talks to _me_."

They were out of earshot to the Bingleys, who were talking to Darcy, and so Elizabeth looked up at them, and back at her son, and whispered, "She does? Like normal people?"

"Of course. Only, she told me not to tell."

"Why would she do that?"

Geoffrey shrugged.

"Well, when someone makes you promise something ... I suppose you ought to keep it," she said. "So it will be our secret for now. But do tell her to say something to her parents. Will you promise me that?"

He nodded. He was so adorable when he did that. He was so adorable when he did everything, and she would miss ... She could not imagine it. It was too painful.

"Mummy," he said, as was not proper, and he had not called her since his infancy, "please don't cry."

"I promise," she said, and kissed him on the cheek again. "Not, too much, at least. I love you."

But she had to part from him. She stood up, and hand-in-hand, they walked to the others, as the plank came down for the ship. "So very small," Jane said, remarking on the size of the ship as she held onto Georgie.

"Well, the Continent is not actually very far. I hear you can swim it," Bingley said. But to them, it was worlds away. He turned him to Darcy, who took him aside, as the sisters said their goodbyes.

"Best of luck," he said, offering his hand, but in it, Darcy placed a set of keys. "What are these?"

"The master keys to Pemberley. I know _you_ don't need them to get in, but do put them somewhere safe." Darcy looked uncomfortable, almost as if he was at a ball or something. "Bingley, I'm sorry for dragging you to Town to sign the papers for my will – "

"I'm honored," Bingley said, leaving out at least vocally that Geoffrey Darcy would go to his care until he reached the age of majority, should something happen to his father. These arrangements, which had to be formalized on paper with signatures and witnesses, had been done in some secrecy the day before, in a small office downtown.

"I would say, don't be too hard on the boy, but I know that it is an impossibility. So I would say, don't be too _easy_ on him."

"Are you saying something about my parenting abilities?"

"I'm saying more about my son," he assured his brother-in-law with a slap on the back.

But it was time to descend the plank, and that could not be put off any longer. There were hugs and Georgie waved and Geoffrey pouted, but finally Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were able to board the small ship, bound for France. They waved, and between their son's skin hue and Bingley's red hair, they could get a good vision of their beloved siblings until they were almost halfway across the water.

"Five shillings says we return and they're all blue," Darcy said as he waved.

"Red," his wife said. "I'll put five shillings on red."

As England disappeared behind them, they shook on it.

Next Chapter – The Account in Question


	6. The Account in Question

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

* * *

Chapter 6 – The Account in Question 

The trip to the Continent – the physical landmass that was the Continent of Europe – was mercifully short, barely more than an hour. Elizabeth was shocked to discover that the people on the other side of the world looked much the same as her, at least at that major port town, and spoke English, and _were_ English – either stationed soldiers or people making a living of servicing them.

"Did you expect them all to have green skin?" Darcy said, watching her face.

"Yes, we'd have to be in Derbyshire for that."

In the current circumstances, it was not terribly hard to procure a carriage to take them to Valognes, in Normandy. "We have to go west, anyway. And if the Rue des Capuchins is still under the same owner, and has not been let, then there will people I know there to aid us," he said, and took her hand.

The trip to Normandy was uneventful. Elizabeth spent most of it watching the French countryside go by, and Darcy with his head in a book of French phrases. "Don't worry, my dear. You will be quite sick of the countryside by the end of this and will not miss it one bit."

"Perhaps our trip back will be more leisurely."

"Perhaps."

He had sent his card ahead, and so there was some reception at the ancient manor of Rue des Capuchins, a stone building that had obviously once been a modest noble estate, but was fallen into some disrepair. The man who greeted them was a soldier, probably a colonel, who seemed to be in his late twenties. "Mr. Darcy. And I assume, Mrs. Darcy." He had a mild smile and an vaguely southern English accent. He was quickly joined by a modestly-dressed woman with a small child at her ankles, and there were bows and curtseys all around. "Mrs. Darcy, I am Colonel Audley, and this is my wife, Mrs. Audley, and my son, Robert."

"Pleased to meet you all," Elizabeth said.

"It is good to see you again, though our stay will be brief, as we have pressing business in the south," Darcy said. "Is there still that old room I used to stay in that contains some family artifacts?"

"Of course, though I would say it's too small for you now," the soldier said with a wink. "We have done some personal renovations, but not in that part of the house, and we would never throw something out with inquiring first. I believe your father was here some years ago."

"Yes I do recall he made a trip to France before he passed on."

"I heard about that. My apologies, Mr. Darcy."

"It is the way of things."

They were welcomed in, and found a quiet sort of charm about the wing that was in use, and were given refreshment and a tour of many pictures and items the colonel admitted being unable to identify, but probably belonging to the d'Arcy family. They were then released and shown suitable quarters, and told that dinner would be at six. The colonel's wife, from her accent, was obviously French, and spoke little to them.

At last Darcy came to the room he wanted to visit, a bedroom with a one-person bed and a desk and a chest of drawers. Darcy immediately sat down at the desk and opened its drawers, sifting through the contents.

"This is where you stayed?" Elizabeth said. With the lavish way Darcy lived at Pemberley, she could not imagine him living in such a cramped apartment. Clearly the d'Arcy family had gone up in the world by moving to England and marrying into families there like the Fitzwilliams.

"Yes. At the time, Thomas – the Colonel – and I believe her name is Arlette – were newly married and he had been released from the army because of a nobly-won wound. And because her family was here and he liked the country, he decided to settle down, and the house was let by whatever local person had control of it. But I was here only a short while. I believe my father would stay here sometimes, on business. See, here are some papers of his." He pulled one out, and lit the candle next to it. "Some letter about shipping prices to the senior Mr. Wickham."

Elizabeth, left to her own devices, began opening the drawers. They were mainly clothing, laundered but unused for some time. A layer of dust was in the room, but nothing too bad. The third drawer, however, was entirely different. "Darcy!"

He looked up from his papers and joined her. "Look at that."

It was a vast collection of various personal artifacts, hastily stuffed into the drawer. She picked up one of the many small portraitures. "Is this you? As a child?"

"It seems so. Not a very good one, though."

"Yes, the nose is off. Or you've changed, perhaps."

"Perhaps." He scooped another one out. "I believe this is ... Mrs. Wickham."

"Did you know her?"

"No, but I've seen her in portrait. She died before I was born." He put it aside. "And Mr. Wickham. Our Mr. Wickham." For it did look like George, but as a little boy. "Yes, definitely him." He put it away with distaste.

"This one?" she said, holding up yet another, slightly larger one, of a bejeweled woman.

"My mother." He took that one out of the drawer, and put it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

There were other things in the drawer. There was jewelry, a lot of it. "Would you like it?" he said to his wife.

"Oh, I have so much already," Elizabeth said. "And I feel as though we are looting the place."

"Hardly. These are my father's possessions, or a relative's. They don't belong to Colonel Audley, certainly." He plucked one up that interested him, a gold bracelet with an inscription. "'To my darling Anne.'"

"For your mother."

"Yes. Either he never had a chance to give it to her, or he took it around with him after she died and left it here for whatever reason." This, he took out of the drawer and also put in his waistcoat. "If you see anything you like ... I doubt we will be back here. We should take at least some if it." He returned to the desk and opened up the drawer on the left which was full of files and papers. He pulled one out at random. "Oh G-d."

"What?"

"'My dearest' – I think this is a love letter my mother wrote to my father.'" He stashed it away like it was on fire and would burn him. Elizabeth laughed at the spectacle. "What? Would you like to read letters your father might have written while courting Mrs. Bennet?"

"No! What an awful idea!"

"Exactly."

He returned to his scouring and she to the drawer. The items in it were all very lovely, but she could not imagine taking them, at least not the ones not clearly marked as belonging to his parents or relatives. She picked up the portraiture of the young Darcy again, and flipped it over. Upon closer inspection, there was a name scribbled hastily on the wooden back, and it was not Fitzwilliam Darcy.

She slipped it into the pocket of her coat without a word.

"Here it is," her husband announced, startling her, but she hid it as she turned around. "Some financial notations from a local bank where, according to the date, my father set up an account shortly before his death. It should still be there, and I should be the benefactor. If you wouldn't mind, I'll inquire with our hosts as to its precise location."

"Since when did you become so money-hungry, Darcy?"

"It is not that and you know it. I am the financial head of the Darcy fortunes, and I should at least take the time to know where they are. It may be nothing, some charitable fund. But if we are here ..." he trailed off as he passed her, giving her a quick kiss.

Elizabeth had little understanding of the Darcy fortunes beyond what he had taught her because it was necessary for her to know it upon his death, and she had never taken economics, but what she did pride herself on was having a keen sense of when her husband had some kind of scheme, plan, or though train running through his head that he did not want to share with her. Well, that was fine. She had one, too.

* * *

It turned out the bank was but a ten minute's ride, enough time for them to be back for dinner, if it took a reasonable amount of time, and Darcy was fairly sure that it did. 

The bank itself was an old, crumbling building, but very much still in service and full of guards like any proper bank that had survived the revolution. Unfortunately, as he had warned on the way, Darcy had to leave Elizabeth at the door to the office of the bank manager, because they were to discuss an account to which she had no rights to. And so she walked around a bit outside, admiring the wonderful fountain in the center of town, as Darcy was called into a stuffy office with an exceptionally fat man struggling to seat himself behind his desk as he came in.

The bovine banker before them put on his reading glasses, looked briefly at the note, then finally turned to his visitors. "So you are here to inquire of the account of Geoffrey Darcy. May I assume you are the executor of his estate?"

"I am his son, and yes, I am."

The banker squinted at the records before him again. "Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"Yes. Do you require proof of my identity?"

"No, Mr. Darcy, I do not, unless you wish to alter the nature of the account. Which, according to his own specifications, only you may do, and in person."

"I admit to not knowing his specifications. I was only recently informed that he had an account here. It is not in the record books in England."

The banker grunted, or possible snorted. "Yes, well, if you wish to alter the arrangements, you may do so, but I must require the proper papers for that."

"Arrangements?"

"Yes." The banker glanced over the records again, which he did share with either Darcy. "The annual ten thousand pounds to be sent to Mon-Claire, drawing on a reserve of some two hundred thousand."

"Mon-Claire?" Darcy did his best to hide his surprise at the staggering sum.

"Yes. It is, I believe, in the west."

"And it goes to an estate?"

"No, it goes to a person. Grégoire Bellamont. And, as the account specifies, he is permitted to do as he pleases with it, with the exception of re-depositing it in the same account. What I mean to say is, Monsieur Darcy would not allow him to refuse it."

Darcy was trying to stay focused on the bizarre information being thrown at him "I am not familiar with this man. Have you met him?"

"No, monsieur. The account was set up in the presence of only your father and a Ms. Bellamont."

Now with the blood rushing to his head and the pounding in his ears, he could barely manage his last question, "And the date of that event?"

The banker squinted again. "Februrary 7th 1800. Do you have any –"

"I wish all of the records to be made available in copy form at once," Darcy said, standing up. "I will return tomorrow for them. Thank you for your time."

The banker nodded, and Darcy left, rejoining his wife, who was waiting for him on a bench. "Darcy? Are you all right?"

How would he explain this to her? How could he possibly – "I don't know. It's ... complicated. I'll explain it back at the manor, please."

The trip ride back was brief, and Elizabeth stroking his hair did nothing to relieve his frustrations. In fact, it made him feel downright guilty. They retired to their own quarters and he spelled out what he had heard at the banker's.

"1800," Elizabeth said. "Your father died – "

"In 1801. He was ill for about a year before, so this must have been when he was first taken ill."

"And you were in Cambridge."

"No. I had graduated two years prior and ...," But he had already done the calculations, when he heard the sum granted, and that a woman was involved. He just didn't want to hand those calculations over to Elizabeth. "... I had just spent a year traveling the Continent. I returned in the fall previous."

"To have your formal training? I mean, to be master of Pemberley."

"Yes."

"But you did not accompany him on this trip – to set up this account."

"No. He made mention of it, but to be perfectly honest, I have little recollection of it. It was brief and I was busy with other things. I think Bingley had vacation from University and had come in for the shooting. So – I took no notice, and he didn't talk much about it when he got back."

Elizabeth paced in front of him, which terrified him, because he knew she would reach the same conclusions she had if she tried hard enough. Which she would. "So a year or so after your return from your year abroad, some of which you spent here – "

" – a small amount, at the beginning – "

" – he goes to France and sets up an extremely generous account with an anonymous woman for someone who is obviously her son."

He could not bring himself to answer her. His silence said everything anyway, and he could see the anger rising in her eyes.

"You think it's yours," she said with such a lack of emotion that it was positively frightening.

"It is ... within the realm of possibility."

"So you knew her?"

"The last name means nothing to me, but – "

" – that doesn't matter, does it? Do you even remember her first name?"

He softened his expression. "Elizabeth – "

She responded by slamming their bedroom door in his face.

"Elizabeth!" he shouted, pointing on the door. There was no noise from inside, other than the door soundly locking. "I – cannot further explain myself. And we have no confirmation! He could have been a family friend!"

Still nothing. Darcy knocked his forehead against the door. "Lizzy," he said, in a whisper that he judged loud enough for her to hear. "I love you. Please."

He almost fell forward as the door came open. Elizabeth's expression was of stone. "Then we will go to Mon-Claire and get confirmation that there lives an old friend of your father's who deserves a generous living equal to your own."

And then she shut the door again. This time, he did not have the strength to protest.

* * *

It was late in the evening when the messenger came to the Maddox townhouse, but this was no surprise. As both a doctor and a surgeon, he was often called at all hours, as illness had no particular time schedule. His wife was quite used it, in fact, and kissed him as he went off to work as if he were doing it at a more proper time. 

What he did not tell her was where he was going. His patient list was confidential, to the point of most of it being in his head. Before marrying Caroline, he had been practically destitute for years, with nothing but a shabby apartment and a collection of books he had managed to save from the people who came to collect everything that belonged to his brother, and thereby, to him. Much of it was got by sneaking them out in the night, but those books were precious treasures that kept him company and were his only solace as his brother fled the country, and he spent many hours reading by daylight when he worked a long nightshift and spent the next day recovering. And then the print on some of them began to blur, and he had to shell out a small fortune – most of his savings – to get his glasses changed. He took every job he had no major moral objection to, and that he was physically capable of, even the ones that were considered beneath proper doctors and were for surgeons. Surgeons, in his opinion, were not well-trained, and doctors rarely put their training to use. He was also extremely discreet, partially from having no one to tell and partially from wanting the repeat business. As a result, though his wife did not know it, he was one of the favorite people to call of every Madame and pimp in Town. He did not treat the women there unless it was something to be mended, though he was very polite to them – as he felt a gentlemen should be, whatever their profession – but he could not treat their diseases because there were no treatments that he knew of. Yet despite explaining this at length, and many times, they still threw rather risqué and grotesque descriptions of their symptoms at him, so that he probably knew what was wrong with every fancy lady in London.

On this particular evening, when he arrived, he was ushered along to a room he was familiar with, and with a familiar woman at the door, barely a silk robe covering her. "Hullo doc," said the woman.

"Hello, Lilly," he said.

"How's the good doctor these days?"

"Married," he said quickly, and ducked into the appropriate room, which was not properly lit, but he knew his way around it. There was on a man on the floor beside the bed, wearing trousers and an undershirt, and holding a cloth to his blooded chest with one hand and a bottle with the other.

"I'm the surgeon," he said very formally, kneeling beside his patient and setting down his bag. "Do you mind if I look at the wound?"

"Go ahead," said the man, and removed the cloth. "There's been a lot of blood."

Maddox removed his glasses and held up the lamp, peering in very closely. "The wound doesn't look deep. It was mainly done for dramatic effect, I imagine, but it's more of a surface wound. I'm going to probe it, if you don't mind. There may be some discomfort, and the instrument is a little cold, but it's more sanitary than my hands."

"G-d damnit," the man said, taking a swig of his bottle. "G-d damn whore."

Maddox ignored this and opened the bag, carefully removing his instruments. The Madame appeared at the doorway. "The usual water please, in a clean bowl, and some towels."

She nodded and disappeared. He turned his attentions to his patient. The wound was indeed mostly superficial, meant to draw blood (which had a fright factor) but not do serious harm, but the initial blow before she dragged it along his chest was deeper and the bleeding would not cease. "If you would allow, sir, I'd like to give you a few stitches on the top, perhaps no more than three or four."

"If I would allow it?" the man said, his cultured, obviously high class accent slurred by obvious drunkenness. "_I'm bleeding_. Go ahead."

"I usually prefer consenting patients, when they're conscious," Maddox carefully explained, and went about his business. His patient rambled on as he did his work, explaining that Lilly had attempted to re-negotiate the price after the deed, and when he refused, she had stabbed him, and was a 'crazy bitch.' Actually, Maddox suspected she was quite sane, if a bit in love with a knife, as she had a habit of this and this was not the first patient he was called to, but he kept that counsel to himself. He focused instead on having his patient press down on the lesser wound area until the bleeding stopped while he stitched him. In the end, five were required, more than Lilly's usual. "These will need to be removed in about a week. I can give you my card, or you can have someone else do it."

"I'll take your card, but I may not use it," the man said, putting his shirt back on with a grunt of pain.

"I understand completely. Keep the wound clean. I recommend boiling the water and letting it cool before putting it over the wound to prevent infection. Do this at least once or twice a day until the stitches are removed, and keep the area bandaged with something clean, and you should prevent infection, which of course would be most serious." He quickly put his instruments away and washed the blood from his hands, and stood up. "Good luck."

The patient raised his bottle in a sort of toast. "Good job, doctor. I did not get your name."

"Doctor Maddox," he said, and doffed his hat.

He was nearly out the door when his patient said, "You have not asked my name."

Maddox turned back to him, took one look at the man in the diminished light, and said, "No." And then left with all expediency.

When he returned to his house, his manservant was up to greet him, as these calls were not unknown, and he did find it convenient to drop his bag with a servant and be able to reasonably expect the instruments cleaned and ready in the morning. He found himself tired, probably from the hour, and inquired as to his wife. "Mrs. Maddox is retired."

Of course she was. The sky was practically lightening. He did not want to disturb her, so he took to his own bedroom, as was his custom when returning from a late call, and collapsed on the bed.

Next Chapter – The Invitation


	7. The Invitation

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

In response to NNichollaa's question, this story takes place in 1808. Napoleon currently rules France and has various military engagements with England and the other nearby countries. He will not be defeated until 1815, but this period is one of relative calm, during what is called the Fifth Coalition in the history of his rule.

* * *

Chapter 7 – The Invitation 

"Daniel! Daniel, wake up!"

Doctor Daniel Maddox opened his eyes to the normal blurry world and a figure that was undoubtedly his wife. He knew her figure, but the red hair always gave it away, even if her voice didn't. Though it was not particularly piercing, it was very excited, and therefore a little rattling to someone who was sound asleep. "...What?"

"Daniel." She leaned over, and he had only vaguest idea of what the gesture was, being unable to see it with any clarity, until she kissed him on the head. "You won't believe what I have to tell you."

"I already know you're pregnant."

"Stop being a doctor for once," she said. "We've been invited to a royal ball."

_That_ made him sit up. If there was not that level of pure exasperation in her voice, he would have begun to believe it. "What?"

"I know! I cannot properly explain it, unless _you_ can. Here." She handed him the invitation, which was very large in his hands.

He held it up to his face, and let his eyes adjust to the morning – well, probably afternoon – light as the letters became clear. "It seems we have. Dear, can you hand me my – " But she already had his glasses and put them in his hands. He put them on and as the world became clear, he laid back and gazed at the invitation and then his wife, dressed properly, so it must have been at least a decent hour of the morning, probably later. "I cannot explain it either."

"You're the one descended from nobility."

"And I have never in my life spoken to the current earl of Maddox. Nor would he have the authority to a royal ball." He gave her back the invitation. "But this is – uhm, good news. And this Friday. So frightfully soon."

"I know. I never thought I would say this about a ball, but I haven't a thing to wear."

"Neither do I." And it would certainly cost him, but as they had no choice in the matter, and his wife was exuberant over the idea, he was readily willing to spend every last shilling on her dress. He also had the wisdom not to share this with her at the moment. "I suppose something will have to be arranged."

"You will not admit it," she said, and kissed him around as she sat down next to him, "but I know you had something to do with this."

"If you're inclined to keep rewarding me such, I will contradict you."

The invitation was set aside.

"Just so you know," she muttered, "my brother and sister are coming to dinner, and Charles may be in town in time to be invited."

"And ... and when is that, exactly?"

"In about three hours, dear."

"Oh," he said. "Good."

* * *

As it turned out, Charles Bingley was in Town, arriving at his own townhouse just in time to be ready for dinner at theirs. "Business with my steward," he explained, and nothing else was asked. "Everyone is well. I mean, nobody is sick, except from worrying." 

"Have the Darcys written?" Maddox asked over the first course. He felt it odd, sitting at the head of the table with guests far above his own station, even if they were all his relatives. Georgiana Darcy was also dining with them, as Caroline had a great affection for her, and she was in Town, finding Pemberley "too closed and empty" for her liking.

"They are in Normandy and Darcy reports that they are fine. His letter was a bit brief. Elizabeth's was longer, but it was addressed to Jane," Bingley said.

"Never liked France," Mr. Hurst mumbled over his soup. "Too much rain and too many vowels."

Maddox stifled his laughter as Bingley gave him a smile, and Caroline announced the great news, which was met with the everyone turning to the doctor, who merely shrugged.

"Isn't your uncle an earl?" said Mr. Hurst.

"He passed on long ago. And I am not acquainted with the current earl. Not that that would explain it."

"Are you going to meet the king?" Georgiana whispered, though it was loud enough for everyone to here.

"He's not going into public these days, is he?" Mr. Hurst said.

"I hardly think a private ball qualifies as public," Mrs. Hurst retorted.

"I heard he wasn't," Georgiana said. "I mean, being seen."

"Or they're not _letting_ him be seen," Caroline said. "It must be, because we haven't heard anything in the papers for a while now."

"The invitation didn't specify," was all Maddox had to offer. "The Regent is the host. I suppose he will make a decision based on his father's particular mood at the moment, if we are meant to be presented to him at all, and I have no idea if we would be."

"So you know something of his illness? I mean, beyond what we all know," Bingley said, passing a dish of vegetables to his sister. "Perhaps that would explain it."

"I severely hope they have no medical expectations of me," Maddox said, and when the idea sunk it, in worried him even more. "I've no expertise on the mind. No one does; it's too closely connected to the soul, perhaps. I only know what I've heard from other doctors, who are more closely following the reports."

"Which is?" his wife said expectedly.

"That his madness passes in and out, and sometimes, he can be quite sane," he said. "But apparently not enough to rule the country, as it's all very unpredictable. But I doubt it has anything to do with us, because he has the best doctors in the world treating him, so I hardly doubt they would resort to a Town doctor."

"Terrible malady," Mr. Hurst said. "Madness."

"Is it treason to say that of His Majesty?" asked Georgiana innocently.

"Maybe _in front of_ His Majesty," Caroline said. "But not in this house. You are allowed to state the obvious, Miss Darcy."

"Perhaps you will learn for yourselves," Charles said. "Well, I think you're very lucky. I can't even imagine being invited to a royal ball. Darcy, surely, has been presented, but he's Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire. Have a sword, doctor?"

"Oh goodness, no. Am I going to have to get one?"

"I believe that is part of the appropriate dress," said Mrs. Hurst. "But perhaps not for a physician."

"You could bring that scalpel of yours," Caroline said, and Charles laughed in his seat next to her.

"Get a big enough scabbard for it, you should be fine," slurred Mr. Hurst.

Doctor Maddox smiled, and kept his nervousness to himself.

* * *

Bingley's business was brief, and he quickly returned to Derbyshire before the mystery could be solved. The point was that Caroline was exceedingly happy at the prospect of a royal ball, and he was exceedingly happy to see his sister content, and that however he was doing it, the doctor was doing so. 

Geoffrey and Georgie were there to greet them at the door, their skin coloration beginning to fade. During the day, when they were allowed to play about, not yet being of the page to have proper lessons (though Darcy had his son begun on reading and writing, but particularly harshly), they were free to run about, and could hardly be separated. As the servants removed his coat, he inquired after his wife, and asked that his other children be brought to him in his study. It was not long before Jane appeared, carrying little Charles, and passed him of to his father as she kissed him. Nurse arrived, carrying little Eliza, but Jane waited until Bingley was settled with his son in his lap before passing a letter to him. "From Darcy." It was only then that she took Eliza into her arms.

He broke open the seal and quickly scanned Darcy's elegant but precise script. He told Nurse to wait outside. When they were alone and the door soundly shut, he read it aloud.

_To Charles Bingley,_

_Please be assured first that all is well and we are now way south, though we have a stop of business to make in the east, but it is not terribly off course. _

_I have a request of you that may seem of an odd nature, and I would wish that if you want to tell anyone of it, please restrict this conversation to your wife. _

_In my study is a small cabinet in the back right corner, made of red oak. Of the three drawers, all are locked, as they contain financial records dating to my father's lifetime and possibly before, and it has been years since I have been through any of them. You will find the master key of Pemberley opens the first two drawers, but not the third. I once made an attempt at opening it some years ago, but either the lock was rusted out, or that was not the appropriate key, but there are nothing I could do to open the drawer without destroying the cabinet, and I had no major interest in the cabinet beyond mere curiosity, so it has never been opened in my time as Master of Pemberley. _

_Please take the keys and make some attempt to open it, employing whatever methods may be necessary. In fact, I give you full permission to destroy the cabinet, but I imagine with your skills, it will not come to that. Please keep this task quiet, and if anyone asks, have Mrs. Reynolds called in, inform her that I have given you the authority to do this, and that it directly relates to a matter I believe she is better informed of then I am._

_If there any documents in the drawer, please do me the additional favor of reading through them. In particular, I am looking for someone by the name of Bellamont, and whether they were under my father's employ, and when. If you discover anything, please report it to me. _

_I will explain the matter in full detail when I return. I regret that it is too complicated to give justice to now, as the road is very exhausting._

_Many thanks,_

_Darcy_

"What does he mean? About the keys?"

"He gave me a set of the master keys of Pemberley before leaving," Bingley explained, and quickly produced his own keys, which he used to unlock the bottom drawer of his own desk. "Here." He put the keys on the desk for display. "Oh, and these." He reached into the drawer, sifted through the various Indian books there, and retrieved a set of lock picks. "I never should have told him that story. Now I'm going to feel like a common burglar."

"Better than destroying the cabinet, I suppose. Do you think you can do it?"

"I've no idea. But if he's off saving your sister, I might as well aid him in some fashion. Are you accompanying me?"

"Let me put our children down for a nap, and then, yes."

An hour later they were at Pemberley, and greeted by a surprised skeleton crew, which included Darcy's manservant, who was waved off, and they quickly made their way to the study. The cabinet in question was not hard to locate. It was in the back, and obviously not in regular use, and the only one with precisely three drawers. "If anyone inquires as to what we are doing," he told the servant attending them, "please send in Mrs. Reynolds. Otherwise, Darcy's specifications were to be that we were left alone."

The servant bowed and left, closing the great doors behind him.

"First," Bingley said, and went through the ring of keys through Pemberley, but while one opened the first two drawers, Darcy was right in his estimation that it did not open the bottom one. "It doesn't even fit. The lock was changed at some point."

"Surely a locksmith about handle it."

"Not without making a fuss. And I think, knowing Darcy, he wishes to avoid it at all costs." When his wife did not contradict him, he sat down on the floor and placed the lower pick into the lock, inserting the other one in above it and fiddling with it. "Rusted. But not impossible, I think."

"You are quite the rogue."

"I haven't opened it yet," he pointed out. "Argh! What a difficult lock. You may wish to sit down; this may take a while."

"Charles! I'm not _currently_ pregnant."

"That we know of."

She gave him a smirk before having to greet Mrs. Reynolds, who entered very authoritatively with a grand opening of the door, and silently awaited the explanation to be given as to why someone was messing around in her master's study, even his in-laws. "Mrs. Reynolds. Mr. Darcy has written and asked Charles to retrieve some records from a particular cabinet for him. He said it pertained to a matter that you have some knowledge of, but did not specify."

Mrs. Reynolds went through several expression changes, but nodded obediently and said nothing. She moved around the desk and looked at the rather hapless-looking figure of Charles Bingley on the floor, working at the lock.

"Okay, I think that was the first pin. Or me breaking it. Either one."

"Mrs. Reynolds," Jane said very calmly. "Do you have any idea as to the contents of this cabinet."

"Oh no, Mrs. Bingley. I imagine if he keeps it locked, it's financial records, and I remember Mr. Darcy – Mr. Darcy's father – using it occasionally, but I only came to Pemberley some years after the Master's birth, and it has never been my concern."

"Well, this should solve it," Bingley said. "Yes, first pin. Definitely. All right, first pin is the hardest. Or is it the last pin? I forget."

Whether he ever remembered or not, it took him some time, and Mrs. Reynolds called for tea, but brought it in herself and otherwise kept the door shut. She did, however, stay in the room, but was not dismissed.

"There!" Bingley said triumphantly, as the sound of the lock very soundly turning open finally broke the silence in the room. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a handkerchief from Mrs. Reynolds and pulled the drawer open. Its hinges had rusted, and this took some work, but finally the cabinet revealed its treasure – pages and pages of documents. "Well, after all that, I was sort of hoping for gold or something."

"You did a good job anyway," Jane said, and kissed her husband as he rose and pulled the records from the drawer, putting the huge stack on the desk. "Oh dear."

"May I help you, sir?" Mrs. Reynolds said. "If you're looking for something specific – "

"Yes. A Mr. Bellamont, or records of his employment at Pemberley, if they exist."

Mrs. Reynolds visibly paled, and the Bingleys stopped their opening of the various folders to stare at her with the obvious intention of waiting for her to explain her reaction.

"Do save us the trouble," Bingley said.

"Well." For once, the aged Mrs. Reynolds, usually sharp as a pin, began to look her age. "I did know her – and it is a Mrs. Bellamont. Or, properly, _Ms_. Bellamont. It seems the master has forgotten, perhaps because of his age at the time, but she was his mother's lady-maid."

"And – what else do you remember of her? I think Darcy will require some more specifics."

"Only that she was fired rather hastily, shortly before Mrs. Darcy's death. At the time, I was not the manager of the house, only the laundress, and so I don't remember – "

"It's fine," Bingley said. "The date of Mrs. Darcy's death?"

Mrs. Reynolds supplied it; it was days after Georgiana's birth, eighteen years ago, when a fever had overtaken her and the whole house had been devastated, especially of course the young Darcy, then eleven.

That made going through the records much easier, as they were dated very accurately, and in the traditional neat script of the Master of Pemberley. Annual salary sheets were signed and dated by Mr. Geoffrey Darcy and in the earlier years, his steward, Mr. Wickham. It was not tremendously long, with the three of them working, that they locating the document specifying a termination payment for Ms. Alice Bellamont. Oddly, Bingley noted that it was a few months before Mrs. Darcy's death, during her confinement.

"An odd time to fire a lady-maid," he said, and no one found a propretious response.

* * *

The Bingleys got into bed later than usual, as they had every night since Geoffrey Darcy had stayed at Kirkland without his parents around. One look from his father was still enough to scar him in to listening to Nurse, but his Uncle Bingley was not father, and trouble making such a severe a face as was appropriate. Jane had to feed two infants before putting her own older daughter to bed, and thus was similarly exhausted when she climbed next to her husband, and they laid there for some time, with the lights still lit. 

"I suppose we should give more responsibilities to Nurse."

"I suppose."

"A good gentleman does not take such interest in his children until they are properly grown," Jane said.

Charles turned on his side to face here. "And who told you this? Your father?"

"Hardly not! My mother."

"Of course. I should have assumed. Well, then I am not a proper gentleman. I am sorry to disappoint you, a gentleman's daughter, who deserves only the best. Surely you are disappointed in me."

"Most disappointed, Charles," she said, and kissed him. "I suppose it would be horrible of us to speculate about exactly what we did today."

"Yes."

"And to assume only the best."

"Yes. But we are both thinking the same thing, correct?"

"I am not a mentalist, Charles, so I do not know what you are thinking. In fact, it is entirely puzzling to me."

"Well," Bingley said. "Then it is my husbandly duty to enlighten you as to what I am thinking, which most unfortunately, is a bit gossipy. But duty is more important than gossip." He held her hand as they talked. "I do not think Mrs. Reynolds was entirely forthcoming with us today."

"That I did realize."

"It was more what she left out. Now, Ms. Bellamont, whoever she was, occupied a treasured position for many years and to do so, we will assume that Mrs. Darcy had some attachment to her. And it is quite unlucky to upset the normality of the household during Confinement. So she must have done something to make Mrs. Darcy quite upset, or Mr. Darcy suitably upset to fire her despite his wife's protests. Now the first thing I can think of for a servant is theft, but Mrs. Reynolds would have known about that, and had no shame in saying it. It would have gone around the all servants, no doubt. But she omitted the reason, which she surely must have known. So – I will assume the later of the two offenses I can imagine."

Jane looked curious. "Pray?"

"She was with child."

"Not so horrible. I know the Darcys are a particularly upstanding and proper household – very proper – "

" – very, _very_ proper," Bingley said as they giggled.

" – but it cannot be unknown, with an entire retinue of servants, who are all apparently expected celibacy despite no religious vocation to it. Am I wrong, to then be mistaken that there may be the occasional breaking of the established rules of conduct?"

"Occasionally, yes. But to fire a treasured lady-maid ..." he trailed off, and turned on his back.

She tugged at his arm. "Charles."

"I am saying ... I don't want to say what I am thinking."

It took her a moment. "That it must have been someone of some standing within the household. Mr. Wickham?"

"Already passed on. And his son, too young. Twelve." Charles gave her a look.

Jane covered her mouth in horror. "It _couldn't_ have been – "

"It would explain everything quite neatly. The hidden records, the impromptu dismissal, the fact that Darcy is only discovering this now and probably by circumstance. But it is a terrible thing to think, especially of the dead. And Darcy held his father in such high esteem, and does, so if true, this would be a terrible blow to him."

"Did you know Mr. Darcy?"

"Yes. I spent my summers at Pemberley when I was still in University and Darcy was graduated, and my father was still alive to care for my sister. He was a kind man, very proud but not vain, the perfect gentlemen and an affectionate man nonetheless. He taught me how to fish, as I suppose, his son had to best me at something, and the only thing we did in competition was hunting, and I had more affection for the sport than he did, so I was more accomplished. But I never became the fisherman that Darcy is. And fencing – I have no desire even to pick up a blade, much less face Darcy. Mr. Darcy was everything Darcy described him to be, or so I thought ... until today."

She put a hand on his shoulder. "We may be assuming too much. We may be unkind to his legacy."

"Perhaps. Yes, let us assume that, until otherwise."

But he had a feeling they would be hearing otherwise.

Next Chapter – The Grey Monks of Mon-Claire


	8. The Grey Monks of MonClaire

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

* * *

Chapter 8 – The Grey Monks of Mon-Claire 

The trip to the Mon-Claire was a particularly brutal one for Darcy, not just because of the bad roads and the uphill (and at times, dangerous) climb. There was also the intolerable matter of his wife not speaking to him. After many hours of being bumped about, when body contact could not be avoided, she finally accepted the comfort – after rejecting it many times with a grunt – of him putting his arm around her to protect her shoulders from the jostling of the carriage, but continued her stony silence.

They were a little surprised to discover nothing at the top of mountain but a Cistercian monastery and a small community surrounding it. They found no inn at all, and applied to the local tavern for information. No one in the town new the name Bellamont, and their poor French made it worse, but they managed to scrape together that they would have to get their information from the monks, whose Trappist monastery had survived the revolution mainly because of its isolation and lack of worth. Darcy thanked them in what he hoped was the appropriate thanks and they moved on to the monastery.

For a medieval structure, it was small but obviously built over the years and with great care, its gothic stone resisting the temptation of the times and the horrible cold winds that came up from the valleys beneath. The land was relatively bare for harvest time, and what few fertile areas there were in the open fields were being worked furiously by the grey-robed monks they passed. Though they waved with smiles, their presence was greeted with cold stares.

There was no one to greet them. Darcy rapped his walking cane against the heavy wooden doors, and an elderly monk answered, and Darcy tried to explain French what they were doing there, but the monk only shook his head – and opened the door. "_Le Abbot_." But he put his hand up at Elizabeth's attempt to enter. "_Aucune entrée_."

Darcy helplessly turned to his wife. To his surprise, Elizabeth said, "I will wait in the carriage."

It was her first words to him in three days.

He turned, somewhat angrily, to the door-monk. "_Le Abbot_."

The hallway he was led through was impressive, with its gothic arches, but it was also incredibly drafty and he imaged that the old man in front of him with only a single wool robe must be regularly cold, as he himself was freezing. The monastery was silent, and he avoided even tapping his cane to break that ambience as he was set into the private study of a man in his fifties, pale and slim, but not sickly, who bowed to him.

"_Excusez mon intrusion. Je suis Monsieur Darcy de_ – "

"_Excusez_, but I speak English," said the abbot, through a heavy French accent.

_Thank G-d_. "May I –" And with a gesture from the abbot, took a very uncomfortable seat on a very uncomfortable stool before the desk of the abbot.

"You are Geoffrey Darcy?"

"No. His son, Fitzwilliam. Mr. Darcy passed on some years ago. But I see you are familiar with the name."

"Yez." The father monk did not explain himself. "Your purpose for this visit?"

"I am looking for a boy named Grégoire Bellamont," he said, his voice wavering when he said the name. "He may have been in the area at some time. A banker has led me to believe so."

"Yez, yez, of course, monsieur," said the abbot, his rough tone not particularly welcoming but not dismissive all the same. "Brother Grégoire."

Startled, Darcy leaned on his cane. "He is a monk?"

"Yez, he is to take his final vows at Christmas. He has been with us since he was a little boy."

"So ... so he is not – anymore. A little boy."

Whatever the abbot made of his surprise, his own expression betrayed none of it. "No, monsieur. He is seventeen."

There was the severe temptation, when he fully processed this information, to run out of the monastery and to Elizabeth, who was undoubtedly still fuming in what was now a very cold carriage, screaming at the top of his lungs, _It isn't mine_! Not that that cleared him of all charges, but the weight of having an unknown bastard son discovered only by chance was considerable to be lifted from his shoulders.

But ... for his father to leave such an impressive sum to someone who must have been almost six or seven at the time of his trip to the Continent, there had to be a connection. No, that could not be it. This was Geoffrey Darcy, his excellent father, his idol and his own son's namesake. He would not –

"Forgive me," he said, putting a hand on his head. "I'm just – not fully aware of the arrangements here."

"Of course." Then quite calmly, as if it was nothing, he said, "Do you wish to meet your brother?"

"Yes," Darcy spit out before his own mind could reply. It was just instinctual. "Very much." _It can't be true. It isn't true. It is all a mistake_.

It was the abbot who escorted him, and the long trek gave him plenty of time to sharpen his mind against it. His father, Geoffrey Darcy, who was a most upstanding man and had trained him to be himself an upstanding gentleman, and to be discreet and loyal in all matters, he could not imagine – it was not possible to imagine – Not until he had all of the proof before him –

But the proof was before him, in the form of a young man bent over the faucet of a casket of wine. With great precision he measured out a small amount into a glass, sniffed it with obvious expertise, and then tossed the wine out to the side on the dirt floor, where some cats immediately appeared to attack it and lick the dusty remains. He did not stand up until he heard the approach of his abbot, so consumed in his work, and bowed to his master, and to this man before him.

"Brother Grégoire," the abbot said, in English, making it plain that the monk understood the language. "This is Monsieur Fitzwilliam Darcy."

The monk took off his spectacles, which were little more than two lenses held together with rope and wood, and stood in full to look at the visitor. He did not match Darcy in height – he was shorter, and smaller, and considerably less nourished, or so it appeared under his shabby robe. His brown hair, identical to Darcy's in color, was perfectly tonsured, and there was some difference in their facial appearances, but the familial resemblance was undeniable. Clearly terrified, he bowed to Darcy, who quickly returned to the gesture. The abbot said something quickly to his charge in French, who nodded, and bowed to him as he left, leaving them alone.

Grégoire turned to the towering figure of 'Monsieur Darcy' and said in a strangely accented English – partly French and partly a more local Derbyshire brogue, "I understand English like to tour the grounds, if you would, monsieur."

Darcy could only reply with a yes.

* * *

The garden was suffering from the harsh weather, and they moved slowly to an unattended section. How Grégoire was not freezing in his poor clothing was beyond Darcy's understanding, with the winds whipping up. 

"Where did you learn English?" Darcy asked because, even though the answer was obvious, it was a conversation starter.

"My mother," Grégoire said. "She died when I was eleven, of cholera. By then, I was already a novice here, and she lived in town so I could attend her until the end."

"And I assume your mother was Mrs. Bellamont? She never remarried?"

"She never married," he said. "I will not deny it. I am a batárd."

"I find it very hard to call a monk a bastard, no matter what his heritage," Darcy admitted. "I do not know the formal connection – "

" – and I have no wish to dishonor my father. It is a biblical commandment – "

" – but nonetheless, we are standing here, finally and only by happenstance, and it seems we are related. I think the dishonoring, if there was any, was done many years ago and involved neither of us."

Grégoire considered this before answering, keeping his head low shamefully, "My mother was your mother's maid. She was dismissed and sent home to France, where she had family, despite having come to England to find work at a very early age. I do not know the arrangements, and had no idea of my – heritage until I met our father."

"You spoke with him?"

"Once, when I was ten, and the financial arrangements that brought you here were made. He was ... very kind to me. Very penitent. He offered me a living with the church."

"But not this living, I assume."

"No, he offered to pay for my tutoring, and then university, and then a bishopric. If he had lived – and at that point, he said he was certain he would not – he would have paid for a red hat. But I refused."

"On what grounds?"

"I wanted to join the church to get close to the Holy Spirit," he said. "Not get rich." He quickly raised his eyes. "I mean no insult, Monsieur Darcy."

"'Darcy,' please."

"What I mean is, I was not insulted that he was offering me money. I believed that he meant it for my wellbeing and I was honored, that he should treat a bastard child in such a way. But I did not want it, and so I refused. And he refused to not provide the money. So we reached an agreement with the current arrangements, most of which went to provide for my mother for the extra year she lived."

"And now?" Because he had trouble, imagining with his surroundings, that this monastery swallowed up ten thousand pounds a year, unless they were hoarding gold-plated relics somewhere.

"I receive my monies, and I donate them to various charities. The revolution left many widows and also children filling orphanages. If you wish to change the arrangement, you may do so, but it will have no effect on my own living situation."

Darcy looked out at the dreary fields of Mon-Claire, and said after some contemplative silence, "Brother, do you happen to know Italian?"

* * *

Upon sending Grégoire to his abbot to request the appropriate things, Darcy practically broke into a run to the carriage, where he pulled open the door to a very expectant Elizabeth, who appeared to have something in her hands. "Well?" 

"It seems the shades of Pemberley were thoroughly polluted long before you came to picture," he said.

"You - ," Elizabeth was befuddled by her husband's experience, which was a smile.

"He's not mine," he said. "He's my brother. Half – my half-brother."

"So your father – "

"Yes." He climbed into the carriage with her. "My father was not the man I thought he was." He wanted to be close to her, now that he could, and her anger was dissipating. He wanted the intimacy that he had had to suffer without because of a perceived sin. It was only with her securely in his arms that he noticed she was holding the portraiture of him he did not remember taking from the old d'Arcy estate, of him, or they supposed it was him. She flipped it over and held up the scribbled note on the back.

It read, _Grégoire Bellamont_.

"You knew?"

"I – had suspicions. But still that did not say everything, though the boy in this picture is – well, it has hard to tell."

"But it does prove – well, it provides considerable proof. And I suppose Grégoire would like to see it."

"I am to meet him, then?"

"He is to go with us, with your permission. He speaks Italian and French, and some German. And he has never seen the world outside of Mon-Claire, within what he can remember."

"And they will allow him to leave?"

"He is just a novice. So we will see. See, here he comes how." He took her hand, which she gladly accepted, and stepped out to greet two monks, an aged one who was obviously the abbot and a young man in his late teens with an uncanny resemblance to her husband, if younger and with a gigantic, perfectly bald spot on his head. They both bowed deeply to her and Darcy.

"Monsieur Darcy," said the abbot through a heavy accent. "Brother Grégoire will accompany you on this journey with my permission and see Rome, upon which, he will guide you back here and then you shall part ways again. He has instructions as to the behavior expected of him and you would do well not to interfere with it."

Darcy, not cowed but assessing the situation and knowing it was better to appear respectful merely said, "Of course, Father Abbot. The carriage?" he said, gesturing that he can return to it.

The abbot gave Grégoire a severe look, who lowered his eyes and replied, "I cannot ride in a carriage."

"Then how exactly do you intend to travel?"

"I am told I am to walk."

Fine. If the abbot could be severe in his looks, so could Darcy, who spared the old monk nothing in his gaze. "You cannot walk to Rome. Certainly not with our pressing matter there. It is – impractical. Impossible."

"Can he ride? On a horse?"

"I ... do not know how," Grégoire said shamefully.

"He shall not ride in carriage with you and ... your wife."

He did not have to look at her to know that Elizabeth was horrified, and that was enough to incite Darcy's considerable ire. He reached forward and took up Grégoire's sizeable hood and put it over his head so that most of his face was blocked. "There. Now his holy robes will protect him. May we go now, Father Abbot?"

At last, the abbot relented. He spoke some words to Grégoire in quiet Latin and handed him a small sack. "Go with God."

Grégoire finally joined them, Darcy cave the abbot one more cold glance. "Papist."

"Heretic." The abbot turned away, not willing to engage him further.

"_Husband_," Elizabeth chided, pulling him into the carriage.

"You are bound to your master, Brother," Darcy said. "And I to mine. Fortunately, mine is prettier."

* * *

It was in the carriage that formal introductions could be made. Apparently Grégoire did intend to wear his hood and stumble around blindly, and Darcy sighed and reached across to pull it off. "Brother Grégoire, this is my wife, Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy." 

He bowed to her as much was possible in his seat, exposing his bald top. That and he was clearly afraid to look at her. Because, in the brief time while Darcy had been arguing with the abbot, Darcy had not been oblivious to the fact that poor, young Grégoire had been ogling his wife. Thinking about it now, he could imagine that Elizabeth was probably the only grown woman the boy had seen since puberty, and there was the fact that she was, in Darcy's opinion, the most beautiful woman in the world. So, since he felt it was mainly harmless, he kept his normal possessive instincts in check.

Elizabeth could not curtsey in the carriage, so she nodded her head to him. "I believe you would want this – "

"Oh no, I should have no possessions – " but he stopped when he saw what she was holding, a portraiture that he was, at least, willing to inspect.

Darcy recognized it instantly. "What are you doing with that?"

"I took it. The back, Brother."

He flipped it over and squinted at the faded lettering. "'Grégoire Bellamont.' This ... this is me." He looked at the child on the other side. "As a boy."

"You do resemble your - ," she looked to Darcy for some approval, " – brother. We thought it was him when we first saw it. And then I saw the signature."

"It was among our father's possessions," Darcy said to the monk. "You said he held you in some affection. I do not doubt it. It is yours."

"No," said Grégoire, passing it back to Elizabeth. "I do not have possessions."

"None?" said Elizabeth in disbelief.

"What I have with me is borrowed from the monastery collective." He looked away, as if she was the sun, bunching up his sizable but tattered robes.

Elizabeth gave her husband a look, who just shrugged and put an arm around her. "We are happy to have you along, brother."

He did not say which kind of brother he meant.

* * *

Having lost time going to Mon-Claire, they did not return to the estate, and headed south instead, stopping at inn at the bottom of the mountain. They were apparently used to sheltering monks, and while the Darcys were offered the best room in the house (which was still, despite a quaint charm, hardly respectable by Darcy's personal standards), his brother took the worst. Darcy happened to look in it, and found only a mat and a candle on the dirt floor. Grégoire, clearly exhausted, stayed up for Vespers, which he recited from heart, and then retired. 

"Darcy," Elizabeth said, watching the sad look on his face as they returned to their cramped chambers. She put her arms around him. She knew she had been hard on him the past few days, perhaps the hardest she had been on him since their wedding day, but it had been hard – almost unbearable – for her too, not because of the idea that Darcy had himself unknowingly fathered a son before he met her, but because the physical separation was itself a trial. She wanted, more than ever, for them to be in each others arms again, and not spend another night separated, thin walls of the inn be damned. "He is so hard on himself."

"He was not raised properly."

"Not every man is meant to be an English gentlemen."

"But every man with some money – and he has more than _some money_ – should have a clean set of clothes, should not be expected to walk the length of his country in sandals, should ...," he sighed, leaning into his wife. "I don't know. This is beyond my understanding, why he is such a ready student of the that life. Undoubtedly because he has been exposed to nothing else."

"Or he truly believes it."

"He is ten and seven. He does not know what he believes."

She kissed him on the cheek. "You don't know that."

"I know I was a fool at ten and seven. And twenty. And eight and twenty, certainly."

"Perhaps a bit stubborn, at eight and twenty," she said with a smile. "But you came around."

"I had someone to inspire me," he said. "Elizabeth, I've missed you so much."

"As have I. And it was my fault, not to make the connection and assume it of you and not your father."

"Because my father was a good man." He shook his head. "Or, I thought he was."

"While I would say to my own husband that I find the idea of an extramarital indiscretion – especially with a lady-maid – inexcusable, that is not to say he was not generous with Grégoire, or tried to be."

"Grégoire is the richest monk I have ever met. And with no entails, no family to support ... he would be quite an eligible bachelor if he were not celibate." He smiled. It felt good to be in his wife's arms and to smile. "But I cannot excuse my father. I cannot truly believe it, either."

"You have quite sound proof."

"I know." He leaned on her. "I know. I just ... cannot. Yet. Perhaps I will grow into the idea that my father was not flawless."

"All children must, at some point. Not to say you are a child, Darcy." She kissed his hand. "If you were, I would have to call you Master Fitzwilliam."

"Oh, G-d no," he laughed. "No, never."

"Except when you are drunk or muddled and I think I can get away with it."

"Except for then, yes. But otherwise, no." He added, "And don't think I didn't hear everything you said to me after I was shot, even if I couldn't process it at the time. _Eliza Bennet_."

His face, fortunately, was not as severe as his voice. In fact, it was rather playful. Her response was to kiss him, and then, all conversation ceased.

Next Chapter – The Royal Ball


	9. The Royal Ball

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

* * *

Chapter 9 – The Royal Ball

The few days leading up to the ball were as busy as those leading up to his wedding, mainly because Doctor Maddox had to manage his normal patient list (which he kept to a minimal, occasionally responding that he was unavailable to a call) and how in the hell he was to be dressed properly. Fortunately, Caroline was on airs, and did a lot of the work for him, procuring him a sword and setting up his haberdasher appointments. While he was busily nervous, she was busily in a sublime mood, and what little time he had left was busy taking advantage of that, which led to a lot of late nights that had nothing to do with calls for his surgical services.

When the evening arrived, he was still no closer to finding the source of his invitation, but the point was he had it, and his wife was the happiest he had seen her since their wedding day, and that alone was enough of a comfort, even if seeing Caroline walk into his chambers in her beautiful emerald gown did make him a bit weak in the knees. "You are quite dashing, Daniel." She kissed him, meanwhile straightening out his collar a bit.

"I do hope so," he said. "I do hope I won't be called for military service of some sort," he said, touching the sword at his waist.

"It's _ceremonial_, dear," she assured. "But are you saying you would not lay down your life for king and country?"

"If it is to be between king and country or be a husband to a wife and child, then I suppose I will opt with treason," he said, and his hand strayed to her stomach, which was hidden behind layers of gown. Fortunately she was not far along enough to make a ball an impropriety.

"I do not deserve you," she whispered, and then continued in her normal voice. "Your hands are shaking. Are you nervous?"

"I've – never been – "

" – Nor I."

"And it's been ... quite a while ... since I've been to a proper ball."

"Do you remember how to dance?"

"Every good gentlemen knows how to dance."

"Then, you are only obligated to stand up with me, or perhaps someone else you run into that you know. So, you may do as you please, and you are not an eligible bachelor who women will be chasing after and you will be stupidly dancing with every one, which only serves to confuse them as to your intents."

"I will assume you are speaking of your brother."

"Charles may have had blinders on to everything but the fun of dancing with a pretty girl, but he did manage to land one with a great deal of sense. Still, it was both amusing and embarrassing to watch."

"And you?"

"And I? I was not so silly."

"I did not resume that you were. But what did you do while your brother gallivanted about?"

"Made jokes about it with Darcy. To no avail."

"Good luck for me, then."

She laughed, and itself put him more at ease. It was well-timed, for the servant entered just then to say that their carriage was ready, and it was time.

* * *

The Royal Ballroom was in full display and decoration, dwarfing Pemberley and everything but his vague memory from his trip to Versailles, but that had not been during a ball, where the room was dressed with people as opulently as the windows. This was above both of them, and their invitation was checked, but Caroline quickly made herself a welcome addition to the gaggle of chatty ladies after the appropriate introductions had been made. She was in her element; there was no doubt about that. That her husband was not was irrelevant to him.

"You are Brian Maddox, no?"

He bowed to the man in front of him. "Daniel Maddox, sir."

"Ah, the doctor." The man bowed. He was wearing a gold chain and various insignia. "Excuse me – I am Lord Stephan, Earl of Maddox."

They did look a bit alike, if vaguely, and seemed to be in the same age range. "Very pleased to meet you, my lord."

"My lord! Please, we are cousins. I must be Stephan." He smiled. He sort of reminded the doctor of his brother, minus all of the debts, lying, theft, and the limp. As far as he knew.

"Daniel." They shook on it. "I must introduce you to my wife, as soon as I, uhm, find her – "

"Probably chatting away with the rest of them. Best to let them do it, yes?"

"Perhaps." Instinctively, Maddox took the glass of champagne that was offered to him – for his nerves. He knew very well that alcohol was a poor tonic for such things, and led to worse if it didn't make things better, but he saw no other options. He had to sit it out. "I am unfamiliar with these events, I admit. Is His Majesty to make an appearance?"

"He does, on occasion, but only when he's sane. But you probably know more about that than I do. Where was your degree?"

"Cambridge. And the Academy in Paris, which was less indefensible at the time," he said, sipping his drink. "But I'm no mind doctor. No, it was just idle curiosity." The sudden burst of trumpets made his stomach turn. "What is that?"

"Probably the Regent arriving. Fashionably late, of course."

The doctor nodded, and finished his drink, which was quickly taken from him by a near-invisible servant. The general activity in the ballroom stopped, and people cleared away and conversation died down – slowly enough – to make way for the present head and future king of England, George Augustus Frederick, the Prince of Wales and the Prince Regent. All of his titles were announced, and between that and the music, Maddox found it quite deafening. Between that, his general nerves, and the champagne, he was a little light on his feet.

That was until the Regent entered, and he saw him clear. Then Doctor Maddox was ready to pass out entirely; only grabbing on to his newfound cousin's arm enabled him to keep from doing so.

* * *

It was an ordinary dinner in the Bingley house, with its current guests in residence, so that meant a lot of talking on Mrs. Bennet's part and a lot of nodding silently while rolling his eyes on Mr. Bennet's part. Bingley was at the head of the table, with his father-in-law at the other end, and the women between them. The Hursts and the Maddoxes were in Town, and Bingley, being used to even the most unwelcome house guests, was more than happy to welcome the Bennets to Kirkland for Mary's term. That did not, however, always make it easy.

"Mary, you must eat something!"

"Mama! I've eaten!"

"So little!" Mrs. Bennet had eventually made the transition from mother concerned about her daughters future welfare to a mother concerned with the immediate issue of her daughter's pregnancy, especially now that the rest was out of their hands. "Mr. Bennet!"

"What?" he said, looking as though she had never said anything like this in his life. It was amusing to watch. "Oh, I'm not foolish enough to tell a woman with child what she should or should be doing. Do you ever remember telling you to eat more or less?"

"Then you should know to back me instead of this foolish business of always contradicting me!" said his wife. "She must eat more! I will call for a mid-wife if I must, if no one here will hear sense! Mr. Bingley?"

"Hmm?" he said, attempting to imitate Mr. Bennet's exact 'surprised' dinner expression. According to Jane, in private, he was getting rather good at it. "Oh yes. Mid-wife. I'll call for one in the morning."

"Mama, I am not unwell," Mary insisted. "I am just full."

"You always ate like a bird. Proper for a lady I suppose, but the lot of good it has come to. Now Lydia – and Lizzy. They are eaters. Could eat a horse."

"Mama!" Jane said, as her husband broke out into laughter next to her. "Charles!"

He mumbled an apology and covered his mouth.

Of course, Mrs. Bennet was ready to fill the uncomfortable silence. "Now I suppose, perhaps Lydia can finally see Derbyshire. Mr. Bingley, would you treat your mother to finally getting to see her daughter and grandchildren without having to travel to Newcastle? Because Mr. Bennet has forbidden them to Longbourn and Mr. Darcy has forbidden them to Pemberley ... And I would like to see her."

"She would talk, though, mama." Surprisingly, this came from Kitty before anyone else could say it. "About – you know."

"Kitty! Have some respect for your sister! And who would she tell, the regimentals at Newcastle?" She turned her attentions back to Bingley. "Mr. Bingley, would you please be so kind to invite the Wickhams to Kirkland? If only for a short while?"

The rest of the Bennets openly cringed at the idea. Bingley hid whatever he was thinking and merely said, "I will put it under serious consideration."

"Oh, do not be so stubborn! You have no dispute with Mr. Wickham. And when is Mr. Darcy so far from Derbyshire as we can afford to invite him?"

"My dear," Mr. Bennet said, "Mr. Bingley is the master of Kirkland and can invite and not invite whoever he pleases and for whatever reason, if I need remind you."

Bingley sat back in his chair, looking a bit lost in thought. "I will consider it. I would hardly want to get in the way of you seeing your own grandchildren, Mrs. Bennet." Actually, he didn't want to get in the way of Mrs. Bennet and anything. And she did have a point about neither Darcy nor Elizabeth being even on the same island as Wickham. When would they have a chance for that again?

But something else was occupying him, and he was largely silent for the rest of dinner. George Wickham – he had met him only once, the day of his wedding, but knew of him extensively by reputation. He had no reason to be hostile to him, if he ignored the past, but that was not what bothered him.

"Charles?" Jane put a hand on his, shaking him out of his apparent stupor. "Are you all right?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, I'm fine," he said.

"_Tell me later_," she whispered, and dinner continued. So, he would not escape her. That was also on his mind as they wrapped up things, all through the night, and they got all of the children to bed.

"What was that about?" Jane said as she helped Geoffrey put on his nightshirt. They were in the other nursery, the twins already asleep. Thank G-d, they were now sleeping through the night, because Jane refused a wet nurse and handled her children personally, and it was terribly hard to sleep at times.

"What was what about?"

"You were – thinking."

He placed Georgie in her cradle and tied up her nightcap. "Am I not allowed to think?"

"Was it about Wickham?"

"Should we really discuss this in front of the children?"

"I don't care where we discuss it. Do you have an issue with Wickham coming or not?"

"No. To be perfectly honest. Aside from me helping Darcy toss him out a window, we've never had an uncivil conversation. We barely know each other, and I'm sure he would be on his best behavior."

"What was that about – ?"

"The point," he said, briefly interrupted as he leaned over to kiss his daughter good-night, to which she giggled, "is that no, I was thinking of something else. But it is not for me to say."

"It is not for you to say?" Jane asked, because she had never heard him say that.

"Yes, sadly." He leaned over and kissed her. "This is a most private matter that, since it does not involve your sister and hardly involves me, I have no business in sharing, unless you insist."

"Perhaps when Wickham arrives, if he does arrive, I will insist. But until then, you may have your secret."

She kissed Geoffrey and left. Bingley heaved a sign of relief and looked over into Geoffrey's crib. "You have _no idea_."

But thankfully, Geoffrey was too sleepy to answer, and turned over and ignored him entirely.

* * *

11 Years Ago

As they approached the nineteenth century, Charles Bingley found himself at ease. His first year at Cambridge had gone quite well in every respect, and his father was pleased. As a sort of reward, he was given no obligations beyond attending his sister's marriage to Mr. Hurst in early June, and then he was free to travel about a bit. He was overjoyed, of course, when the newly-graduated Darcy invited him to Pemberley. It was not the shooting season quite yet, but there was still plenty of wildlife in Derbyshire year-round, or so he had heard. His father was also interested that his son had developed a friendship with the famous Darcys of Pemberley; such a social connection could only bring about good things. Bingley himself had not that intention when he traveled up north. He wanted to see his friend and get out from under his sisters for a bit.

Darcy was less a man of leisure, as his father was continuing his education in how to be master of Pemberley, and he was himself to leave for a year on the Continent in the late summer, giving them only a month together. Several hours of the day, sadly, Darcy was caught up with his father, an amiable but serious gentlemen, because it seemed that the Darcy fortune was an incredibly complicated thing and hard to master, with so much of it coming from different marriages and stocks in overseas companies, and almost the whole of Pemberley caught up in entail, and then all of their land in Derbyshire that they rented to the peasantry and the income that that brought. Darcy remarked that he had utterly failed until that point to estimate his own worth, but had decided to say it was ten thousand pounds a year, because it was "a nice, round number" and probably not terribly far from the truth. He would stick with that number for years to come, when Bingley with a tradesman's blood knew that Darcy was worth far more. Clearly, becoming the head of such an estate was looming for the young Darcy, and he treasured his free time. They spent many an hour outside, to the point that the cook said she was positively out of different ways to season bird and they ought to shoot something else. There was Georgiana, barely in her eighth year, running about and trying to join them, and occasionally inviting "Mr. Bingley" to tea parties. Darcy informed him that if he responded positively, he would have to sit on furniture that was too small. Clearly he had done it many times. Bingley did say no, but he gave her enough rides on his back to make up for it.

There was one particular morning where Darcy had no standing obligations, and they were about to set out for a particular creek so Darcy could teach him to fish when Mrs. Reynolds appeared at the top of stairs. "Master Fitzwilliam."

"Yes?"

"Master Darcy requests your presence in the study immediately."

That hadn't happened yet, not during Bingley's stay. In fact, the look on Darcy's face made it obvious that the severity in her voice was alarming to him. "Bingley, you may wish to go without me."

"But I can't – Oh, forget it." Because Darcy was already gone, in the direction of the study. Bingley managed to avoid the temptation to follow him there and listen in through the too-thin door for a whole five minutes of furious pacing before he gave in to his instincts, and only because he was busy shooing Georgiana away in the first place.

The Darcys – father and son – had voices that could, to some extent, be considered raised, as Darcy said back, "How could you even accuse me of this? I am insulted just at the implication!"

"What you do in your spare time – "

"I have never, _ever_ used my spare time at Pemberley in such a way and you know it! Have I ever given you reason to think otherwise?"

"I've heard stories about your behavior in college," his father said coldly.

But Darcy was quick to answer, "And who told you those stories? Wickham?"

"Whatever you like to be called yourself, you will show him respect and use his proper Christian name!"

"Fine! _George_. Because he is the person who should be in question here, not me. This is hardly the first time this has happened, and every time, he has been responsible! How many maids have you had to fire since he became a man?"

"You will not speak gossip about George in my house!"

"It is not gossip! It is fact! And I just cannot see ...," And there was a pause, and Darcy's voice upon returned was considerably calmed, almost upset in a different way. "I cannot see why a man of your wit and intelligence will continuously turn a blind eye to it. And to even go as far as to accuse your own son over him!"

"You will not sit in judgment of me!"

For he was right, at least on that account. Darcy, however annoyed (or correct, from the sound of it) he was, he could not call out his father. It was a biblical sin.

After some time, Darcy's voice changed again. "I ... am sorry, father. I reacted strongly to your accusation and I had no place to do so in front of you. But I stand behind my resolution that George is the father."

"Mr. Wickham – "

"With all due respect, father, Mr. Wickham was a saint of a man, but died long ago and his own countenance seems to have little bearing on his son's." He added more desperately, "Why do you not see it? How much evidence must be before your eyes before you open them?"

"And would you like me to use these same harsh eyes to look at you?"

"I've – done nothing wrong! Please, father!"

There was silence on both ends. Eventually, Mr. Darcy replied gruffly, "Excuse my accusation. Of course you would have more propriety than that. It was one of the other servants. You may go."

This time, Darcy did not contradict him. He stormed out, looking not halfway surprised that Bingley was there.

Their trip to the lake was a strange one, not to be repeated in the same fashion. This time, Darcy took liberties with the bottle of wine that was in one of the baskets, and Bingley learned more about Wickham and less about fishing that afternoon as Darcy ranted on. Bingley and Wickham had, it seemed, only missed each other by a few weeks, as Wickham was in residence when Darcy returned from Cambridge, and had decided he had enough of Darcy's "stuck-up attitude" and left. Not, apparently, before impregnating another servant girl.

"And my father!" Darcy said. "I do not – I don't – we don't often misunderstand each other. Please do not let me give you that impression," Darcy said through slurred speech. "I just do not understand it. I do not understand it. He treats Wickham like his own son! He gives him a home, an education, a living – all of which he has wasted away! There wouldn't be a fertile woman working at Pemberley if he could help it!" He shook his head, and took another swig at the bottle. "I just ... don't understand it."

Bingley admitted that he did not. Over a decade later, he had a feeling that he did.

Next Chapter – His Royal Highness


	10. His Royal Highness

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

* * *

Chapter 10 – His Royal Highness 

With a combination of the circumstance, the immense social pressures at work, and the various drinks continuously offered to him, Doctor Maddox knew he needed an escape. Fortunately his wife was thoroughly enjoying talking to the ladies of court, and he slipped out onto a balcony. Only the fresh air kept from being ill altogether. There was a servant there to attend him, but he shooed him away with more anger than he normally would have. Caroline was happy, but that was because she had no idea of the noose that was around their necks, perhaps not even metaphorical. And how was he ever to tell her? If he was to tell her?

"Lovely evening, isn't it?"

He knew that voice, now from two different places. His intended escape had resulted in an opposite effect – he was trapped on a balcony with the Prince Regent himself. He bowed, another threat to his ready stomach, but managed to keep down all of the alcohol he had so foolishly ingested to calm himself. "Your Royal Highness."

The Regent didn't return the bow. He didn't have to, wouldn't have. This man ruled Britain, and even if he wasn't Regent, he was still the Prince. "My G-d man, you look positively spooked. It seems I have that effect on people."

"It's just – I just – I'm not accustomed to being in the presence of royalty – sir – Your Highness."

"But you are," corrected the Regent.

"I – I wasn't going to say it," he said. He wanted to bow again, but now he was fairly _sure_ he would lose his stomach if he did. Instead he removed his glasses and began to clean them with a handkerchief, even though they were perfectly clean, because it removed the distinctness of the world and had almost the effect of looking away, as if looking directly into the Regent would burn his eyes.

"You have a good deal of discretion, doctor."

"Uhm – thank you."

"You really had no idea who I was?"

"I don't – I don't inquire after my patients. Not – not at – well, I'm not going to say it. And it was dark. A-And I had never seen you before, so ... No. I saw a gold ring and you ... you overpaid me, but that just meant – you were titled or – or something. I don't know."

"But you could have asked someone there."

"I didn't. I don't do that sort of thing." He swallowed. "I'm just a doctor."

"You're a very good one."

"Thank you," he said earnestly. Very earnestly. He watched the blur that was the Prince Regent walk over to the edge of the balcony, probably facing out, not facing him. "Your Highness."

"So ... the stitches. Tuesday?"

"Tuesday would be fine, yes."

"I'll send a courier. And now, I must get back to my party. Evening, doctor."

He bowed yet again. "Your Royal Highness."

* * *

Somewhere in France, in a tiny, unnamed inn above a tavern, the Darcys were sleeping their first peaceful rest in days. Far north and a crossing away, the Bingleys had retired from their many guests and responsibilities with children, and the twins were giving them some peace. But between them, in a townhouse in West London, while Caroline Maddox was removing her many layers of complex gown and freeing herself of jewelry, her husband was emptying his stomach into a chamber pot by the fire downstairs. It was only after some time that he noticed his absence and appeared before him, a shawl wrapped over her nightgown. "Daniel?" 

"I'm fine," he said, his voice weak. The servant had already taken the pot, and covered him with a blanket, and she sat next to him on the chaise, and held a hand to his head.

"You're freezing! Did you catch something at the ball?"

"No. No, no, I was in trouble long before that." He swallowed. "Forgive me. It will pass. I had too much to drink." He put his hand over hers. "Go to bed."

"Look at you – you're shivering and sick, and you're sending me away? Do balls really bother you that much?"

"No. Just – this one."

"Are you nervous around royalty?"

"Apparently."

She looked at him quizzically, which he pretended not to catch. "Go to bed, darling."

"Only if you come with me. If it's drink, I won't catch it, will I? Come." She was willing to drag him up, and he waddled up the stairs and was helped into bed. He was so very, very happy to have her. It would be such a shame to lose her, all because of his foolishness.

"I was going to regal you of tales of who I met, but it seems, you are not in the mood," she said. "So I will not torture you. But you will tell me why you made yourself sick."

"I didn't make myself sick."

"You are so prodigiously careful with your own health that I can hardly believe anything else," she said. Damn her, for being so intelligent! "Who did you meet?"

"Can't tell," he mumbled into his pillow. "Patient confidentiality."

"Are you saying your wife ranks below your patients?"

"I am serious, Caroline."

"So you met one tonight. Who was it?"

"Oh G-d, please, let us not talk of this. It will only lead to bad things."

"What? A former lover?"

"_What_? No!" He turned over to face her. "Of course not. There is no one in England that - well, you know."

"Does this line of conversation bother you so?"

"Have I not said that? Several times, I think, at this point?"

"Fine, then! If you don't like royal balls, you never have to go to another one! I will go alone if we are invited, and you will never see any of them again."

He considered, and then said, "On the contrary. I have an appointment with the Regent on Tuesday. Or, he has appointment with me."

Caroline, who was getting ready for bed, turned over in disbelief. "How did this come about?"

"I spoke to him."

"You – spoke to the Regent? _When_?"

"He cornered me on the balcony. About mid-way through the night, just after I'd met the earl of Maddox."

"What – what was he like?"

He shrugged.

"And he requested your services?"

"Yes."

"Why? I mean, not to insult you, dear, but it is not as if he does not have his own royal physicians – "

Something – maybe now that he was in bed and recovering – was making him a little more relaxed, enough to say, "I am going to tell you something that you cannot ever – ever – tell anyone. I'm serious. Not Mrs. Hurst, or Mr. Hurst, even if he's passed out drunk, or Charles, or Mrs. Bingley – "

"Daniel, I get it. Out with it."

He smiled. Maybe he was still, despite everything, a little drunk. "He requested me for the removal of five stitches on his breast. A surface wound, really, but it looked bad."

"And he asked this of you because – "

" – I put them in," he said. "Early this week."

It took Caroline, even with her quick wit, time to process this information. "You treated the Regent of England and you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't know he was the Regent at the time."

"Are you daft? How did you _not know_?"

"How was I to know? He was not properly attired, nor did he introduce himself, and I've only seen the Regent in newspaper etchings. And the light quality was poor. So no, I did not know who he was. I just figured he was nobility by the way he talked and the fact that he paid me extravagantly for the small work that I did. Honestly, people get so worked up over such a small amount of blood."

"Daniel," she said in total disbelief. "You are telling you treated the Prince Regent – "

" – yes – "

" – and you didn't know who he was."

"And I've already clarified why, I believe."

"You've not clarified a thing! Where on earth would you treat His Royal Highness for a cut? Where were his guards? His doctors? His carriage?"

Maddox groaned and straightened his glasses. "Now, this is the part of the story that is both treasonous and will not reflect well on my occupation. So for the initial reason, you cannot tell anyone. Seriously. You promise?"

"G-d, I promise, yes already."

"Caroline, I'm serious – "

"I know. And you're only dragging it out now."

She was right and he knew it. "Fine. When I met the man who I learned this very night was in fact, the ruler of England, it was in a house of prostitution, and he had been stabbed by his courtesan, who was attempting to renegotiate the price."

Caroline, who was usually never at a loss for words, started at him for a full thirty seconds – he counted – until she responded, "That's the worst lie you've ever told me."

"Good that it isn't a lie, then," he said, awaiting the eruption.

It came soon enough.

"What_ in the hell _were you doing in a – a_ house of prostitution?_"

He put a pillow over his head.

"Daniel? Daniel Stewart Maddox, I demand an answer!"

He was so ready for it that it was almost a relief to hear her at least be angry at him for it. It was strange sensation indeed. "I am a doctor, Caroline. More accurately, I am a surgeon as well, and for many years I was hard up for money and went wherever I was called without any judgments made. And so, because of my habit for discretion, it seems I am, sadly, quite favored by these particular ... houses. And they pay me very well, so I go."

"But you've never – "

"Oh G-d, no. Even if I was a bachelor and I was the type ... those women are all horribly diseased. I know because they describe their symptoms to me in great detail every time I pass, hoping for a cure that doesn't exist. But no, the patients I treat are men who've had too much to drink, or have had heart attacks, or been stabbed."

" – which would include the Regent."

"As has been established, yes."

"And she thought she was going to get away with it?"

Since her righteous anger seemed now somewhat abated, he removed the pillow. "I suppose she imagined he would not report it in the interest of avoiding scandal. So either she was secretly killed or she is very much alive."

"And you did not – ask who he was?"

"No. It is not what I do."

He had a pounding headache from all of it, and he relaxed for a moment as Caroline fell into a contemplative silence, swallowing all of the scandalous and horrible information he'd thrown at her. Finally she said, "So – the invitation - ?"

" – was undoubtedly so he could see me again and judge me to be a discreet man. Which, it seems I was, because he requested my services. That, or he intends to have me jumped and killed when I go to the castle on Tuesday. Either one."

"You realize where this could lead?"

"My head on a spike?"

She turned back to him. "No. A royal commission."

He'd been too panicked to think of it. "It's just stitches. He probably wants me to remove them so that his own surgeon doesn't ask questions."

"Still. It is not beyond the realm of possibility. And a nicer vision than your head removed."

"Most things are."

She fell into him, giggling, "The Prince ... in a whorehouse ... and I can never tell anyone!"

"No, you cannot. But I suppose, it is a rather juicy tidbit."

"That is putting it mildly," she said. "You are no judge of gossip."

At this, he had to laugh. "A terrible fault indeed."

"The Prince Regent! In a whorehouse!"

"And stabbed by the very woman of the night who was with him!"

"And you did not recognize him!"

"Did I mention he was drunk, too?"

Caroline laughed into his shoulder. It was a wonderful feeling.

"Well, if he does have me jumped and quartered, at least I will die knowing we laughed about it the week before."

* * *

As expediency was key, the Darcys – all three of them – did not sit idle at the inn and began the long road south. There were places, they quickly discovered, where the spring showers had made the road so muddy that the wagon barely went faster than a man, and it was then that Grégoire got out and walked alongside the path, soaking most of his robe, but stubbornly refusing to return to the carriage. 

"He's as bad as you are," Elizabeth said with a grin that Darcy tried hard to ignore.

At last the carriage came to a stop entirely, the wheels stuck in mood. Grégoire translated with the driver for a while to Darcy that the hold-up would not be long and the horses needed a break anyway, and that they were approaching a drier region, but he remained unpleased. Elizabeth had her own concerns, but she held them back, focusing instead on Grégoire, standing along on the hillside overlooking the valley. When she approached, he put his cowl over his head.

"Come now," she said. "I am your sister-in-law. And I'm a mess from traveling – hardly a spectacle."

After a moment he did relent, and pulled back his hood. Elizabeth couldn't help but notice this was their first moment alone together, as Darcy was on the other side of the carriage, yelling at the teamster in his broken French. Despite the physical resemblance, Grégoire was all humility, his gaze often averted, his posture uncomfortable. Or no, maybe he was the same, she wondered, but without the stout Englishmen upbringing. Darcy was uncomfortable around people despite his attempts to hide it (which quite often made it more obvious), but Grégoire made no such attempts, and whether it was the modesty of a monk or the general Darcy lineage was impossible to discern. So she looked out at the countryside, which was quite beautiful, and not at him, which seemed to put him at ease, as he could do the same.

"So," she said at last, "you are named after your father." Grégoire, after all, was the French translation of Gregory, unmistakably similar to Geoffrey.

"Yes," he said. "I believe was his intention to name all his sons so, but was obligated to do otherwise with Monsieur Darcy."

"Yes, Darcy is named after the Fitzwilliam family," she said. "He has a cousin named Colonel Fitzwilliam. It would have led to some confusion if Darcy didn't shun his baptismal name." She held back a laugh. "There's a long, silly story behind it. No actual animosity. He and Colonel Fitzwilliam are great friends as well as cousins."

"I thought it might be a custom, as you are calling him Darcy and he insists I call him that," Grégoire said. "I am not familiar with English customs. I only know that father only managed to name two of his sons similarly."

Elizabeth shook her head. "You are mistaken. You are thinking of his – your – sister, Georgiana."

"No, father said he had three sons." He turned and actually looked at her after the silence, and noticed her shock. "Have mercy on me. I assumed you were aware."

"You are sure?"

"It was what I remember. Though, I was a child, so my memory may not be clear. But – he did say his wife named Georgiana after him, out of spite."

Not only did she not what to imagine what had gone in the private chambers of the Darcy's parents when his liaisons had come out in obvious evidence and with exceptionally bad timing, but Elizabeth could only manage to think of one person who bore a similar name to Georgiana, who Mr. Darcy kept close, and provided for, and left a living for ... "Do not tell Darcy!"

"I am sorry – have I slandered father?"

"No – no, he has done quite enough of that himself," she said. "But – if it is – oh, G-d." Had two brothers married two sisters? "Do not tell him. Please, I beg of you. Not yet, if he is ever to know at all."

"I apologize if our existence is so disconcerting – "

"No, no, it is not you, though that was a bit of a shock, but you," she struggled to find her words, too busy with the gravity of his own, however unknown. "You are blameless. I cannot think of a man who has led a more blameless life."

"I am a poor sinner like any man."

"But not like this!" she said, unintentionally raising her voice, and to look that Darcy had not returned his attentions to them. Surely he would, soon enough, now that the wagon was almost free. "I will explain it all, but please, promise me you will not say a word!"

She grabbed his arms as she said this and almost shook him, and in such a stunned state as he was when she did this, he could only answer, "... I promise."

"Thank you." With that, she ran off, leaving a stunned monk, and fell into Darcy's arms.

"Lizzy? Lizzy, what's wrong?" he begged. When she refused to answer, he gave a cold look to Grégoire, who shrugged unconvincingly. "What did he say to you, Lizzy?"

"Nothing. It is nothing. It was not what he said...," she said, wiping away tears. "I will tell you at a more appropriate time."

"Of course," he said, helping her back into the ready carriage, but not before a stern glance at his half-brother.

She wondered, however, if there would ever be an appropriate time.

...Next Chapter - Appointment with a Doctor


	11. Appointment with a Doctor

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

* * *

Chapter 11 – Appointment with a Doctor 

Monday for Doctor Maddox was spent mainly in fittings for the proper attire of a royal servant. The haberdasher offered to trim back his hair so that the wig would fit properly, and he had to put up a considerable resistance before the man would relent and managed to get a wig to fit over his bushy bangs.

His reward, he supposed, was having Caroline see him the next morning in full dress, on the way to the palace. She apparently had none of his fears, or if she did, she hid them well. She was the ambitious side of the marriage, and that suited him just find, because it took some pressure of him. "Don't be nervous. It's not as if you haven't seen him before."

"Twice, now." But his hands would not stop shaking.

"He must like you."

"He will not like having stitches removed. That I cannot promise will endear him to me."

"You worry too much," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. "You're the best surgeon in Britain."

"A mild exaggeration," he said. "I love you."

"You sound so positively grave when you say it like that," she replied, and saw him off. His trip was relatively short, but he had to be led through the monstrous grounds of Westminster, his black bag signifying his identity as yet another anonymous servant of the crown. No one paid him any heed, or even inquired as to his name, and he was merely made to sit and wait for some time on what was the most undoubtedly expensive chair he had ever sat on in his life (and he had sat on some rather expensive-looking ones at Pemberley, but these people were royals), until he was called and brought into what seemed to be the dressing chambers of the Prince Regent, who was dressed but for his ornamentals and his waistcoat.

"Your Royal Highness."

"Doctor," the Regent replied, without the same formality. "I suppose we should get this bloody business over with."

"As you wish, Your Highness." He gave his normal instructions for clean water and soap to be brought for him, and began unpacking his bag as the Regent undressed, looking more like the person he had first encountered and not the grand host of a royal ball (and technical ruler of England). But he was a surgeon, and he had a surgical task at hand, because no good doctor in England would touch their patients out of propriety, much less operate on them. In these motions, he was comfortable, as he rolled up his considerable sleeves and washed his hands.

"I had a surgeon once who did not believe in soap," said the Regent, now sitting on a chair with his cravat removed and his shirt open.

"Not all soap is beneficial. You can usually tell its inherent qualities by the smell, unless it has been disguised by being mixed with spices, and is not in fact, soap."

"You are familiar with this?"

"I believe in cleanliness, yes." He turned his attention to the wound, removing his glasses and hanging them on his breast pocket to do so. "It has healed very well. I would recommend removing the stitches now."

"Another one didn't used gloves instead of his bare hands."

"That I cannot recommend, unless they were new gloves," Maddox said, removing his tools from the kit. "They can be carriers of disease. In fact, leather gloves are not washed, so they are exceptionally good ones." He pulled up a stool beside the Prince. "This is going to be a bit uncomfortable. My apologies, Your Royal Highness."

"At least the first time around, I was soused. I can hardly remember it."

"Putting them in is a much different experience," Maddox said, peering close to locate the first knot, and cut it with scissors. "Excuse my closeness. I am nearsighted."

"I know," said the Prince, who grunted as Maddox began to slowly weed out the snipped wire, similar to fishing line. "Your eyesight began to decline in your teenager years, did it not?"

"That is true," he said.

"How long before you lose it?"

If it was anyone else, the question would be outright rude, especially from a sober patient. But this was the Regent. He could say whatever he pleased, and apparently, he did. "I hope very much to see my children go out."

"Yes, congratulations are in order for your wife."

Maddox was an experienced enough doctor to be able to maintain his work when he wanted desperately to pause. "You have done your research very well."

"Not me. My intelligence, of course. It's easier for them when I hand them the card. They had practically everything on you by – ow - morning light."

"Apologies."

"No, it's my own poor countenance." But there was a bit of blood, from the hole where the lacing had been removed. Maddox wiped away with a towel. "Your brother, they did not find."

"My goodness. Is he being sought after by the Crown?"

"No, just the local authorities. Still, know where he is?"

"No," he said, and pulled out another snipped cord.

"You are willing to lie to the ruler of England?" the Regent scoffed, but in a playful manner.

Maddox, in his serious doctor mode, was not as playful. He was neutral, until his given task was completed. "I am willing to go through considerable lengths for the man who raised me and paid for my education."

"And ruined you, apparently."

"Gambling is a vice that has destroyed the best of men," was Maddox's quiet reply.

"But you are – very well educated. Cambridge, Paris, Rome, all the right licenses with London University. You would be a fine doctor if you were not a surgeon."

"And then I would be not much good to my patients, if I was of too high a class to treat them," Maddox said before he realized that perhaps social commentary in front of the future king of England was perhaps not the best of ideas.

The Regent managed to laugh, though it was subdued by the experience of the stitches, no matter how carefully Maddox took them apart. "I will make no complaints about your patient list. Though, it would not be suitable for a royal doctor and surgeon to be visiting whorehouses. Unless, of course, I was there."

Maddox stopped.

The Prince just continued, "This would require, of course, a considerable shortening of your patient list, and you would have to be on the University's medical board, but that could be arranged, though it might require you to attend a lecture or two. But I suppose with your level of scholarship, you are not adverse to the idea of being invited to lectures? Especially if you were a paid guest?"

Maddox stammered, "No, Your Highness." He needed to focus. He still had a task before him, the last two stitches and then the stopping of the small trickle of blood, and the bandaging of the wound. Fortunately the flesh had healed nicely, and was free of infection.

"And it would tie you to Town rather strictly. I know your wife has a brother in Derbyshire, and he is related in marriage to the Darcys of Pemberley and that crowd, but for the most part, you would be required to remain in the general – ugh – vicinity. Was that the last one?"

"Yes, Your Highness," he said, pressing the towel against the wound. "Please press down until I say to stop." He set his pocket watch next to the bowl and washed his hands again.

"Thank G-d for that. How long is this to be?"

"About three minutes. Time for the blood to clot," he explained. "A very simple procedure. Avoiding infection is really the most difficult thing." He turned back to the Prince.

"You haven't said anything about my offer."

"It – I am working, Your Highness, and your immediate health is my first concern," he said, too shy to admit he was shocked by the forwardness of the offer. Sure, Caroline had suggested it multiple times over the weekend as a possibility, but just because he had removed some stitches? And did he want to be tied to the royal service? He would finally be able to provide for Caroline properly, not using up his savings as he currently was. It was the ideal position. "There. Let me see it, if you would."

The Regent removed the bandage, and no blood came up. Maddox took a very careful look, and checked the cloth for anything other than blood, and then pronounced him relatively healed. All that was required was a quick bandage so any possible blood wouldn't stain his shirt, and he was done.

"Will it leave a scar?"

"A very small one," he said, repackaging his bag. "In response to your offer ... I don't know quite what to say." He replaced his glasses and this time looked more generally at the Prince Regent, who was straightening his shirt.

"Most men would jump at that offer, aside for the reasons that I have already given."

"This is true. And I do not say it is not enticing. But I cannot, in good faith, refuse a patient I have been treating for some time. I can shorten my list, and stop visiting these houses, but I still have those I treat who are perhaps not proper patients of a royal physician."

"And for that, you would give up a lifetime of financial security and probable knighthood at the end of it if you didn't accidentally kill me in some prescription?"

Maddox considered it. "I suppose I would. How very foolish of me."

"Or how very noble of you. Well, my offer stands, doctor. Whatever your patient list may be. Infect me with cholera, though, and there will be severe ramifications."

"Of course." He collected things and was getting ready to bow when he released the Prince Regent was offering his hand. To shake. He was shaking hands with the Regent of England. He was touching him in a non-surgical way. "Then ... we are agreed."

"I will have the papers drawn up, and if they are to your liking, you may consider yourself a royal doctor, Doctor Maddox," said the Regent. "My father wants his staff treating me, of course, but as his staff can't treat _him_, I'm more eager to find my own."

"I am honored, Your Highness." And this time, he did get his chance to bow.

* * *

The most direct route was not a terrific one to travel, especially during the spring thaw, and the Darcys spent many a night in a roadside inn, the two of them on a bed that barely fit one person, much less them both. It was the only part of the accommodations that seemed to bother neither of them. Neither did they complain about the food, which was fantastic.

Grégoire did not break bread with them, maintaining to the Rule of contemplative silence during his own meal of largely more than bread and some plain cooked meat. He joined them separately for their dinner, because then he would talk, and they quickly discovered he was most convenient for sniffing out – literally – wines. It was, after all, his main occupation at the monastery, even if he didn't partake in it himself except when there was nothing else to drink. He put his very discriminating nose in many a glass before they found the best wine in the tavern, and Elizabeth and Darcy tasted the finest vintages of their lives.

On one night, Darcy indulged himself in second glass, far before beyond his norm, and they retired early. In their tiny room in whatever nameless traveler's inn he sat before the fire, not drunk but his eyes red and his mood more in ease than it had been since their trip to the old d'Arcy estate.

"Darcy," she said, taking his hand, which was warm and inviting. "There is something I would be remiss if I did not discuss, but I fear it will not be something you want to hear."

He waved it off with the sort of look that he gave people when he wanted them to keep talking.

"Grégoire said something to me in innocence, not knowing the ramifications. And his memory may not be perfect, please keep in mind –,"

His mind seemed to click on. "What is it, Lizzy?"

"He said that you – the two of you – are not your father's only sons."

At this, Darcy began to smolder quietly. She knew this. She had expected it, but she had yet to see him a better mood, so she decided to chance it. She detested keeping secrets from him, especially secrets he had every right to know.

Darcy replied quietly, hiding his emotions, "And he chose to tell you over me?"

"It was by happenstance. He assumed you knew."

"How would I know? I am only just discovering this."

"Because – Darcy, because you know him. Because Georgiana is named after him, and because he, too, received a generous living from Mr. Darcy while he was alive, and was left one after his father's death."

Not fully working at full speed, Darcy's mind had to turn over the various possibilities before saying, "Impossible."

"That Grégoire said so or that it could be?"

"It is impossible," he said with more force. "You will recall, there was a Mrs. Wickham, married to a Mr. Wickham until the day she died, giving birth to George."

"And your father kept a picture of her in his dresser Rue des Capuchins. Along with a picture of young Wickham."

"Mr. Wickham did often travel with my father. Some of those things could have been his."

"I am not saying it is true. I am only saying, considering the evidence, it is perhaps possible – "

"Evidence!" he said, raising his voice as slowly he did his body from the chair. "What evidence is presented before me? The accusations of a mere boy of a man, who must have heard it from my father years ago, when he was but ten?" He did not bother to hide his anger, as it was directed to Elizabeth. "I will not accept such slander!"

"Darcy – "

But he was already storming out of their room and down the hall, where he found his half-brother in his room, with his items spread out on the floor beside the unused bed, preparing himself for evening prayers. "Monsieur Darcy – "

He was no match for Darcy. He had age, but not strength, or intent. He was nothing to Darcy, full of rage and an accomplished sportsman, who grabbed him by his holy robes and hurled him against the wall. "Did you say this lie to Elizabeth? Did you slander our father further?"

"I – I cannot – "

"Darcy, don't!" Elizabeth shouted, trying to pull them apart, but was altogether unsuccessful. "Listen to me. I made him promise to not say a word. I wanted to do it. I thought you would accept it better if you heard it from me."

"That does not free of him of my questioning!" Darcy shouted. "Do you believe my father told you that George Wickham was also his son?"

"...Yes," Grégoire said meekly.

"Why would he say such a thing?"

"I – I do not presume to be in the mind of my – our – father," he said, gasping for air, as Darcy was pressing on his neck, unintentionally strangling him.

"Darcy!" Elizabeth said in her sternest voice. "Release him! It is not he who is at fault here!"

Darcy looked at her coldly.

"_Mr._ Darcy," she said, returning the glance with equal fervor. "Please do unhand my brother-in-law."

He hesitated, but at least, he did release Grégoire, who dropped to the ground with a thud, and had to be helped up by Elizabeth. "I did not mean to speak ill of anyone, Monsieur Darcy. I thought it was common knowledge."

"What – _exactly_ – did father say to you?"

"I was inquiring as to my family, and he said he had a proper heir, which is you, Monsieur, and a young daughter, and another son he raised as well, but his identity kept secret, for the scandal, and not to hurt his steward's pride during his waning years. So, four of us. And he was named George, after his supposed father."

"And mother knew of this? _My_ mother?"

"I know little of her, but apparently she did, because she insisted on naming Georgiana such in spite."

It was too much. Elizabeth saw it on Darcy's face. As much as he had come to have some attachment to Grégoire, perhaps now severed, he could not begin to fathom taking George Wickham in as a brother. And Georgiana – Perhaps it was having a monk in the room, but Elizabeth could not help but think that G-d Himself must have intervened to prevent that elopement from coming to be. How close, unknowingly, the entire family had come to terrible danger. She looked to Darcy with a look that she could help but be a piteous one, and he sighed and stepped out without a word. "Darcy!"

But he did not return the call. She did find him in their room, or downstairs in the tavern. The front door was open, and he was gone.

...Next Chapter – The Longest Night


	12. The Longest Night

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Note: So, everyone's figured out that when I get diludged with comments, I tend to push the next update faster, right? Also, I'm trying to keep to a schedule here of not leaving a huge cliffhanger for when I know I'm going to be away. That's just unfair.

* * *

Chapter 12 – The Longest Night 

Darcy did not reappear until mid-morning, when Elizabeth had finally fallen asleep after trying to stay up, and then too exhausted from sobbing, had allowed herself to crawl into bed. When she closed her eyes, Grégoire was still standing vigil, but when she opened them, it was her husband, sitting on the bed next to her. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, and for him to do the same, but he just sat there, as if in a daze, his clothing from the day before thoroughly soaked in the morning due and the mud from the road. Had he spent the whole night walking?

"Darcy."

He look off his waistcoat and boats, which was a considerable process, before silently climbing into bed next to her. His body alone was a comfort, the way he slid his fingers along her side before collapsing on his pillow. Clearly, he had not slept at all. She thought might go right to sleep, and continue her torment, but instead he spoke.

"I cannot do it."

She turned over so she was facing him. She wanted to feel his breath, know he was alive and breathing and smell his scent. They had been separated before, when he was on an errand or such, but never was she so bothered by the absence of his physical person. "I did not ask you to," she said softly.

"I cannot accept him. Or these actions of my father, truth or lies. It is too much."

She took his hand, and he returned the grip, even tightened it, seeking her comfort as much as she sought his. "I will not ask you to. We can never speak of it again, if you wish."

"I tried – all night. It was not until the sun was rising that I realized how late it was and how far I had wandered. But I cannot turn it over in my head and make it fit. On a logical level, yes. But the mind is not very logical."

"No, it is not."

"Wickham could not know. He would have pressed that advantage long ago." He sighed. "I have decided that perhaps, my father was not perfect in everything he did in his life. We have enough proof of that in the next room. But this is different. I am not prepared for it. Lizzy, I cannot bare the thought."

"I hardly can fathom it, either," she said. "But that is life and men – and perhaps, sometimes, women – err in their ways."

"You are too good a woman for Pemberley," he said, and kissed her knuckles. "I do not deserve you."

"You are not your father's son in every respect, Darcy. Don't take this burden on yourself."

"But it seems, I must," he sighed, turning onto his back. "But ... when we return to England. For now, let us let the matter rest, and no more talk of Wickham. Agreed?"

"Happily agreed," she said, kissing him on the cheek.

* * *

There was one other person who had Wickham on his mind. Charles Bingley sat in his office at Kirkland, the papers on his desk untouched. Idly he glanced out the window, where Geoffrey and Georgie were playing with Darcy's dogs, also in his care. His contemplation was only broken by the servant's entrance. "Mr. Bennet, sir." 

"Of course. And have my son brought in."

The servant nodded and Mr. Bennet appeared. Bingley rose to greet his father-in-law, who merely nodded and went to the window. Mr. Bennet had calmed considerably since Darcys were on their way, but had not settled in to the library as he usually had during his visits to Kirkland or Pemberley. He was not at ease, and there was no wonder in that, but Bingley could think of nothing to say to him that would be further comfort. What he could do, however, was provide him with his grandchildren, whom Mr. Bennet had obvious affection for. Fortunately little Charles Bingley the Third appeared, bundled up by Nurse, and was handed to his father. "Please, Mr. Bennet, do have a seat."

"In a moment," Mr. Bennet said. He did lean over and kiss little Charles on his blond head. Then he returned to the window, leaning one arm on it, watching his other grandchildren. "I was always a bit partial to daughters, myself. Perhaps that is why I had so many of them." He looked over. "What in the world are you reading?"

"It is some papers I've collected on the Hindi language."

"Hindi?"

"The language of the Indians. I'm learning it," he said.

"I'll be sure to send Kitty to India for her studies, then," Mr. Bennet said. So he had not lost all of his humor after all. "And don't you dare go taking my Jane to India. I have my own concerns, of course, but I would have to listen to my wife's ranting about diseases and danger for the entire duration of your travels. Though I am thoroughly accustomed to such things, so I suppose it would not be so bad. Still, my request stands."

"With three young children, you can hardly expect me to go venturing across the world, Mr. Bennet."

"My sons are always surprising me," he replied. "As are my daughters. I will say that I am certainly not bored in my old age. That much, I have to be grateful for, but I do not feel very grateful."

"'These things, too, shall pass,'" Bingley quoted, though he did not know from where. In response, his son babbled in his arms.

Mr. Bennet paused before sighing and saying, "I do hope you will do a better job of raising your children than I did. Certainly, I have great faith that you will."

"I must disagree with you in the first respect, Mr. Bennet," Bingley said. "I have no complaints of any of your daughters, certainly. In fact, I am especially fond of at least two of them. And _exceedingly_ fond of one."

Mr. Bennet did crack a smile, but his mood would not be stirred. "I am serious, sadly. I was – I suppose, too fond of my daughters, in a certain way. I did not want to see them go. I put them out as early as possible because they wanted to go out, but I did not take them to Town or go with them to public balls, where the gentlemen would have been a plenty, or be stern enough with some of them about their behavior, because I could deny them nothing, except perhaps a suitable dowry. I left it all to poor Mrs. Bennet, who became a mess because of the stress, because I could not give her sons. That two daughters managed fine marriages beyond all expectations I can assign only to happenstance."

"I would not agree, again, sir," Bingley said, more insistent this time. "Jane and Elizabeth are your daughters in every respect, Mary is exceedingly intelligent and was only foolish once in her entire life, and there is much hope for Kitty. Mrs. Wickham was a victim of circumstance."

But this pill seemed too large for Mr. Bennet to swallow, at least for the moment. "I think of Lydia every day and wonder how she is doing. Perhaps I may make the request of you that you _do_ invite her to Kirkland, even if it is to bring Mr. Wickham as well? Perhaps marriage has softened him, who knows. But I confess a desire to see them together."

"Done," Bingley answered without hesitation. "Allow me the time to compose the letter, and they are invited." He added, "Oh, and please also allow me to consult with my wife, as she is the more sensible one of us."

Finally Mr. Bennet laughed. "I think you will do well enough in this life, son."

* * *

When they finally rose from their delayed rest, Elizabeth was quick to remind her husband that he owned someone a significant apology. Darcy found he could not disagree, and with his temper thoroughly cooled, he sought after Grégoire, and found him kneeling on the floor of his room. "Excuse me." 

"Monsieur," Grégoire said, rising and closing his prayer book. His bed was unused.

"I do hope I'm at the point of beyond being Monsieur Darcy," Darcy replied. "And I've come to apologize for my unsuitable behavior last night. My fury was designed for someone else." He bowed. "I hope you will forgive me."

"It is not for me to judge any man," said Grégoire, "but if it gives you peace, I do offer forgiveness on my own part."

"Thank you. And, as a gentleman, I am obliged to fully explain myself and my actions. Though, it is a rather long story, and a terrible reflection on our family, but you must here it. Have you eaten?"

"No, I have been fasting."

Darcy decided it was best to not inquire as to why. "Then come. I've not had a thing since last night myself, and we will break the fast together."

He put his arm around him, and Grégoire winced. Maybe he had shoved him up against that wall a bit too hard. They sat down in the inn together, now late in the afternoon, and took a seat in the back corner. Slowly and carefully, Darcy told him the story of his youth, his experiences with Wickham, the attempted elopement, and the scandal with Lydia Wickham (nee Bennet). He told it with what he attempted was a voice of calm, even lacking in emotion, and ended with his own wedding day, the last time he had seen the person in question, who until the day before, he had never had a desire to ever see again, and now still had little desire. "Now tell me, please, if our father mentioned any other children to you, so that there may be no more awful surprises."

"None." During the entire tale, Grégoire had something, his face all concentration, but looking down and not at Darcy. He was often, they had noticed, even afraid to look people in the eye. "None that he mentioned, and I do not believe he was holding back."

"Then we must conjecture he had only four children, two known, and he must have told Mrs. Reynolds about the other two before his death. This, sadly, did not prevent the courting of Georgiana, as it was done in secret from all of us, including the one person who would have put a definite stop to it beyond myself. And since I am so rarely abroad, perhaps that explains why she now directed me to you, without saying it outright."

"I would have stayed hidden to not bring this shame on the family," Grégoire said.

It was a very Darcy family thing to say, Darcy had to admit to himself. "The Darcy family has taken a few blows over the years, as has every good and proper family, and none of this was our doing, so we have nothing to be regretful for." He said it for Grégoire's sake, as the poor boy obvious tortured himself with the very idea. He himself had a ton of regrets, most of them involving not seeing the obvious earlier. He had grown up with Wickham, himself remarking that his father had treated him "as his own son." But he was blind to it because it was his father, and Mr. Geoffrey Darcy was a proper gentlemen in all manners. Or so, he had thought. But that was not problem, not this young man's, who was so thrown out of his only element. "But, if you would, no more of Wickham. I – we, if you agree to return with me and see Pemberley – will deal with upon my return. At the moment, there are more pressing matters."

"Of course," Grégoire nodded, and returned to his food.

* * *

Bingley found Jane sitting in the drawing room, reading a letter. "Darling," she said, as he joined her on the couch. With no relatives in evidence, he sat next her and kissed her on the cheek. "I've received a letter from Lizzy." 

"Is it private?"

"No. They've not had much time to write, so she wrote it for both of them, and it is for you as well, but it just arrived."

"Give me the summary. I will read it in full later."

"They are traveling to Paris, to speak with the headmistress of Mary's seminary and to make sure they are not missing Mr. Ferretti by going all the way down to Italy. They have hired a translator – a monk from Mon-Claire. And they are utterly exhausted, so the whole of it is quite brief, for Lizzy. They should be in Paris by the week's end, but the roads are very muddy and unpredictable. Beyond that, there is nothing else of major import." She handed it to him, and he tucked it into his waistcoat. "They will probably have to go all the way to Italy, will they not?"

"It is most likely. But Italy is a lovely country, and if they have good weather, they may have a pleasant trip back, after running themselves ragged getting there."

"Perhaps." Jane seemed to take comfort in the idea that the trip was good for her sister, so he said it often. "The other mail has arrived, but it has not been sent to your study yet, as I intercepted it when I saw my sister's handwriting. It is there," she gestured towards a pile on the table.

Bingley got up and sifted through it, retrieving a letter with a return from the Maddox townhouse and in his sister's handwriting. "From Caroline. Probably about the ball, though I don't know what she'd wish to tell me." He broke the seal and sat back down next to his wife, who leaned on his side as he read it. "My goodness."

"What is it?"

"It seems the good doctor has received an offer from the Regent to become part of the staff of royal physicians! Apparently he is better known than he esteems himself to be."

"How wonderful! But has he accepted?"

"He would be a fool not to," Bingley said, still reading. "He is still debating it, as it would tie him to Windsor and Town. Caroline derides him for being foolish about it for a while here. Something about patient lists. But she says she will talk to him and he will eventually accept, which means he undoubtedly will."

"Your sister seems to have a certain – effect on him."

"What wife does not?" he said, patting her on the knee. "Though it is true that it would tie him to the Crown and Caroline would have to probably have her Confinement in Town. Which, considering Mary's Confinement is but a month off hers, would be ill-timed. But in the long run it would be an exceptionally good position for him, and probably end in knighthood." He set the letter aside. "I will write a congratulations for them. But first, what I came to see you about."

"Pray?"

"Our proposed guest. Your father has requested it."

"He has? He has nothing but contempt for Wickham."

Bingley shrugged. "But Wickham is still his son-in-law, and Lydia still his daughter, and he is concerned for her. And it is true that he so rarely gets to see her, and this is the only time I can think of that we could easily invite him to Kirkland without having to make sure Darcy isn't outside of Derbyshire."

"What you do with your own estate is your business, Charles."

"Still, I have not been rushing to have him at my table. But you would agree that this may be an acceptable arrangement?"

Jane hesitated before answering. "If my father has requested to see Wickham, then I see no reason to not immediately see to his request."

"Then we are on the same page. I will write up the invitation at haste." He rose to do so. "Though, if things do go ill ... well, we don't have Darcy to sock him, and I'm rather terrible at it, so we ought to have a servant picked out ahead of time. One of the burlier ones. Maybe the under-gardener. Wallace is rather large. Seems like he could do the job."

"Charles!" Jane said, her voice half indignant, half laughing.

"See? Darcy is not the only one in this family who can think up clever plans," he said with a smile before leaving his wife to her laughter.

* * *

With a relative calm reached and the most disturbing matter set aside, the Darcys were on the road again, and though much was unspoken between them, with each day, Grégoire became more at ease and they with him, odd habits as he had. They decided to push hard for Paris and rest there, as finding all the right people in such a massive city would take some time, and Darcy expressed a great desire for "proper lodgings." Elizabeth admitted to being a bit sick of the inside of their carriage as well, and had exhausted the collection of books that Darcy had purchased once they were over the channel, and English books were impossible to come by in such remote areas. Grégoire had only a book of hours, and it was in Latin, but if she found a French book to her liking, he offered to read it to her, translating as he went. 

She had yet to take him up on the noble offer when they found themselves stuck again, not twenty miles from the outskirts of Paris, by intolerable mud. When they were not stopped entirely, the carriage moved so slowly that Grégoire took to walking again alongside the road, and had no trouble keeping up with them. Their only consolation was that they were heading into a drier season and region, and this was merely a literal bump in the road. They had, theoretically, an opening of three months to get to Italy, allowing the same to return before Mary delivered, if she did deliver at all. (This Darcy did not mention to Elizabeth, and asked Grégoire not to, but did not explain the circumstances. The look he got from the monk regarding Mary's 'condition' was blank enough and he wondered if the poor boy knew the facts of life at all)

They still were beyond any sight of Paris when, after a long silence during which Darcy could have easily fallen asleep if not for all of the bumping up and down, he was wrestled into full consciousness by his wife. "Darcy!" She pointed to the window.

On the grass beside the road, Grégoire was staggering, and right before their eyes, he passed out. The carriage came to an immediate stop before Darcy could attempt to give the order, and he climbed out and ran to his brother, who was lying on his side, the color gone from him, his breathing unsteady.

"Grégoire?" Darcy said, and then yelled at the coachmen. "Get a doctor. Doctor! Uhm, _Le Doctore_!" He turned to his wife. "Elizabeth, please. If he's sick, let you not catch it." This seemed to stay her some distance away, and he turned his attentions back to Grégoire, whose eyes were half-open. "Can you speak? What is wrong?"

But the monk was in too much pain to speak. That much, he was able to discern, when Darcy saw the blood on his back, soaking through those grey robes.

...Next Chapter - Proper Discipline


	13. Proper Discipline

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Notes: For the record, Rxc nailed it first. Anyway, usually at 50K or so I make a speech, and we've hit the halfway point here, as this is a longer story, so I was just wondering how you all were handling the many plotlines I've introduced. I'm reluctant to spend so much time with non-Austen characters (Dr. Maddox, Grégoire) in fanfic, but they keep having interesting plotlines, so it's hard not to. The whole story is not the journey to find Giovanni Ferretti (who is a real historical character). The Darcys will return to England because obviously, some things need to happen there. Very, very important things.

I'm having an operation tomorrow, so there may be not be an update until early next week. Wish me luck.

* * *

Chapter 13 – Proper Discipline 

Paris was put aside as the coachmen helped Darcy carry his brother into the coach, but not before Darcy removed his waistcoat and put it over him. Grégoire was only half-conscious and shivering, and all they could seem to do before hurrying to an inn was to make him drink, and he regained some color, but not much.

At some shabby inn, Darcy carried his brother in and placed him on a proper bed, removing his cowl, and called for a doctor using a dictionary he had purchased along the way. He did his best to keep the sight of blood from Elizabeth. He did not want this for her, for so many reasons, and sent her instead to gather proper food and drink for them all. At last a doctor arrived, or someone who seemed like a doctor, and had a nearly unpronounceable name that Darcy didn't bother to catch. He went inside and shut the door, leaving Darcy to pace outside. The wait was very short, and the doctor reemerged, and Darcy demanded an assessment.

"Well," said the doctor in his broken English. "He is a monk. Cistercian, _non_?"

"He is."

"Then you cannot expect a flagellant of his physical strength to walk the half of Francé. It is asking too much."

"I did not ask him to walk," Darcy replied too quickly, before he had swallowed the accented words. "You said – he did this to himself?"

"_Oui, monsieur_."

"What – what purpose could this possibly serve? What great sin has he committed?"

The doctor shrugged. "My – limited understanding is that it is to remind oneself of the wounds of Christ our Lord, who was of course – "

"Yes, I know!" he interrupted. "But ..." But he realized, there was no use arguing with the doctor over this. "You have some ointment for his wounds?"

"_Oui_, but he will not take it. Let him rest, monsieur."

_He's as stubborn as_ ... He was tempted to think, _a Darcy_. "I will take the ointment. Thank you for your services, doctor."

The doctor nodded and handed over the jar with a contemptuous look at this rich Englishmen who did not seem to understand the most basic concepts. Darcy ignored it entirely and went straight into Grégoire's room without knocking.

The monk was on the shabby cot, back in his soiled robes but without the hood, sitting up in prayer. Perhaps it was too painful to lay down. He looked up and seemed horrified by Darcy's intrusion, a look of shame upon his face, perhaps because he had been discovered.

"The doctor says you should be resting."

"I am resting."

"Perhaps my understanding of your local culture is lax, but usually it refers to lying down and sleeping." But he could not remain to full of indignation for long, looking at the pale, shuddering frame of the poor man he'd driven into exhaustion, however unknowingly. "Look at you. What have you done that deserves such great penance?"

On this, Grégoire was silent.

Darcy took a seat on the cot next to him. "I will not ask you to explain your illness. I know you would not expect me, as an Englishmen or a heretic, to understand."

"I never said you were a heretic."

"But I do go to church on Sundays and listen to a sermon English and perhaps a reading from the bible in the vernacular. Surely that in of itself dooms me to hell?"

"I am not one to presuppose who is destined for hell, Darcy."

"But surely you could yourself among the damned, else you would not engage in such penance."

"I certainly hope not. But I am weak and the Discipline is a means of fortification."

"As we witnessed today, I would say that the two are in fact interconnected, but not in the same way." He leaned over, so he was properly looking Grégoire in the eyes. "Let me be understood, brother. If you intend drive yourself in such a manner on this journey, then I will take you no further. I will send you back to your monastery, where you can injure yourself in peace and not have the stress of the roads to put your very life in danger." He added, "I would be sorry to do it, as I doubt we would see each other again. But nonetheless, do I make myself perfectly, utterly clear?"

"I cannot disobey my abbot."

"And I cannot disobey my conscience. So we are at a standstill."

"So we are."

There was silence once more.

"If you would," Darcy said, "remove your robe."

"What?"

"If you will not take medicine from the doctor, then you must at least take it from your brother, who himself is quite ill at the idea of seeing you in such a condition. There, have _that_ on your conscience. Now, pull up your robe."

Grégoire did what he was told with a grunt of pain, exposing a wounded back of raw, broken flesh. There were scars as well, running down his back, from older wounds ... It made Darcy sick, but nonetheless he poured out some ointment from the jar onto his hand and began to apply it the boy's back. "There. Does that feel better?"

"It is – cooling." Though uncomfortable with the concept, after some time, Grégoire did look relieved, if not totally out of pain. Darcy wished for some of Maddox's miracle drug, if only to help him sleep. "Thank you, Darcy."

"I would offer my services again, but I never wish to do this again," Darcy said, rising. "Now get some _real_ rest. For all of us." He waited, with arms crossed, for Grégoire to lie down before leaving and seating himself on the bench outside the room. Now _he_ felt exhausted, if only from the stress of facing the unfathomable. What century was his brother living in?

"Darcy," came his wife's voice, obviously concerned about his awkward position of tension on the bench. "How is he?"

"Recovering," he said as she sat down next to him, finally taking his head out his hands.

"Does the doctor have an explanation, or was he merely over-exhausted? He has not been eating much."

"No." He did not clarify what part he answering. "Lizzy, he is a monk. From a very strict order."

"This I know."

Whatever annoying she had at his reluctance to reveal the details was obviously tempered by his unease, as she put her hand over his, even though it was so much smaller, and leaned on him. He usually went through great measures to hide his unease, and she always saw through them anyway, which at times could be very convenient, because her touch did something to settle him. "He is ... a flagellant." He hoped he would have to explain that. Elizabeth was well-read. She was so good at surprising him with knowing of the existence of improper things.

Whatever memories she did have of the meaning of this word, it took some time to dredge up, because it was a moment before she answered, "They are _still around_?"

"It seems, we are very far from England. And the Reformation."

"So that would explain – "

" – his exhaustion and collapse, yes. Apparently from pain."

"And the blood on his robes."

"I did not mean for you to see that."

"Which is probably precisely why I saw it."

He somehow managed to crack a smile.

There was another contemplative silence before she continued, "And what are we to do?"

"I have already spoken to him about it. Perhaps in not the most – understanding of fashions, but still. We are not medieval. I told him, quite honestly, that if this was to continue, obviously to the point where he would permanently injure or kill himself on some kind of religious obligation, than I would take him no further, and find another translator with less masochistic tendencies," he said. "I also added that I would be regretful to do so, as it meant I would probably never see him again, if he returns to Mon-Claire."

"So you do not wish him gone."

"Hardly."

With the way she was leaning on his elbow, her expression was hard to see and read. "So you accept him, then?"

"As a backwards local with barbarous customs?"

"As a brother."

This, he could not answer. At least, not immediately. But it seemed, Elizabeth was willing to wait. She stroked his back, which was stiff from all of the riding, and from the tension.

When he was soothed, he said, "Yes, I suppose. This does mean I will willingly extend this courtesy to every child my father may have sired." Of course, there was only one known other, but his name would remain unspoken until Darcy spoke it. "But he was perfectly amiable, and highly intelligent, and a kind, generous man who is too hard on himself – somewhat literally. Extremely literally. But that is his upbringing, so I suppose it cannot be unexpected."

"Darcy," she said, "we cannot let him go back."

He had been thinking the same thing, but he was too tired to express it. He took her offered hand. "Our trip will be delayed."

"A few days will hardly make my sister any more or less with child," she said. "Or even a week. However long it takes."

He was not eager to disagree with her.

* * *

"Geoffrey! Geoffrey Darcy, you get back here this instant!" 

Nurse had already given up. She had chased Geoffrey around enough times that she was huffing and puffing, but Bingley shooed away the other servants. "He's my responsibility," he said. "Geoffrey! I meant what I said!"

But he giggled and disappeared behind a corner. Georgie was standing there, and he leaned over to his daughter. "Which way did he go?"

She pointed.

"Thank you," he said, and broke into a full run, nearly crashing into half a dozen servants before he found Geoffrey struggling with a closet door that was locked, obviously intending to hide in there. Bingley picked him right up. "There you are. Do you have any idea what you're doing to us?"

The boy, who was slowly returning to his normal coloration, merely giggled.

"Come now. It's time for your bath."

"But I'm not even dirty!"

"Still, you must – and I feel suddenly as though I'm a terrible hypocrite when I say this – you _must_ bathe."

"I _hate_ bathing."

Bingley supposed it broke his supposed authority a bit to laugh, but he did, and Geoffrey was still stuck in his arms anyway, as he carried him back to the Nursery. "Ah, karma. Listen, I promised to take care of you, and that means seeing to your general cleanliness, and if that means I must bathe you myself, I will!"

His announcement did not go unnoticed. Jane was standing beside Georgie at the door to the nursery, holding a hand over her face at the sight of it.

"Auntie!"

"Auntie will not aid you in this one," she said firmly.

"Georgie!"

Georgiana Bingley shook her head, mainly because her mother was giving her a stern look.

"Don't exasperate yourself too much on this one, husband," Jane said, and Bingley shrugged and carried Geoffrey off.

He was not far enough along before he heard it. Two things, one in response to each other.

First, Georgie turned to her mother and said, quiet clearly and with no failure of pronunciation, "_What's he going to do to him now_?"

Second, at the sound of her daughter's long-delayed first words, Jane passed right out.

* * *

It was three days until Grégoire was fit to travel again. His diet kept him barely more than skin and bones and his health was not at peak upon his injuries, whenever they were incurred, so Darcy took matters into his own hands, practically force-feeding him bread and meat and everything that was available and making him stay in bed. 

"He would do the same with Georgiana," Elizabeth assured Grégoire. "He is most protective of her."

One thing Darcy did do was also hire the local priest so his brother could hear Mass without rising. This he did without being asked, and when inquired, merely shrugged and said to Elizabeth, "I do not think he would appreciate me reading from the Book of Common Prayer."

What he did not share with Elizabeth as they prepared for their journey once again was that he thoroughly searched the small sack of Grégoire's things and removed the knotted cord whip with several steel bits in it from its contents. It was stained with blood and made him sick to look at as he tossed it in the garbage pile outside.

"It belongs to the abbey," his brother protested. "Not to me."

"I will personally pay for the abbey to acquire a new one if they press me on it," Darcy said. "You will have to find a new way to torture yourself. Try falling in love with a woman who despises you."

Grégoire was confused enough by this comment that he did not request an explanation as they joined Elizabeth in the carriage and made their way back to the main road.

It was merely a day before they reached their long-awaited initial destination of Paris. With Grégoire's help and Darcy's obvious bag of coin, they were able to situate themselves quite easily in a fine hotel, meant for ambassadors and people of rank. Grégoire was given an adjoining room and ordered to at least sleep on the mattress, even if he insisted on moving it to the floor. Tired from their travels, Darcy had their dinner sent up, and found a British manager who would begin making the proper arrangements to locate their mail, if the Bingleys or Bennets had written to Paris, and to directions to Mary's seminary. The man, Mr. Arnold, was a former courier for the army and did extremely good work, and by nightfall, they had a small pile of letters from Kirkland and several from Town.

"Look, Darcy," Elizabeth said, passing a letter to him as he devoured his own half of the pile alongside his food. "From Geoffrey."

"From Geoffrey?" He took it and squinted at what, at the bottom of Jane's letter, was a scrawled "GD" and what was quite possibly a stick figure of a person, with blue ink scribbled all over the black limbs. "Huh," he said with laughter. "Well, at least his education is coming along. Grégoire, here. From your nephew."

Grégoire reached into his robes and pulled out his cord glasses, and tied them around his ears so the lenses were situated so he could see the drawing proper. "He is – how old?"

"Two. And a half," Darcy said. "I suppose you'll put up a huge fuss if I offer to buy you proper glasses. But, ah, I'm already a step ahead of you. Would your monkish pride be insulted if I bought a pair of glasses for myself and you happened to borrow them because they matched your own eyes so well?"

His brother answered with a red face, "It is not pride. Pride is a sin."

"And so is having possessions, of course. I suppose the glasses belong to the abbey."

"They do."

"Can you read without them?"

"If I try very hard, but I hear it is bad for my eyes."

"Well, I suppose Darcy, who I never to this day knew was farsighted and required reading glasses, will have to buy himself a pair," Elizabeth said with a sly smile.

"You are attempting to undermine me," Grégoire said, but his tone was not entirely accusatory.

"And doing a thorough job of it," Darcy said without embarrassment, and returned to his letters. "Hmm. Mrs. Maddox. Elizabeth, do summarize this one for me."

"Darcy! Since when did you not like Caroline Maddox?"

"Since I didn't marry her," he said. "And she's prattling on about some ball. I have no idea." He turned to the next letter. "Ah, a later one. It seems our son is slowly returning to his original color, despite his best attempts to avoid bathing. And everyone is in good health, and such and such. From Bingley." This he also placed on her pile. "Bingley is my brother-in-law," he explained to Grégoire. "Elizabeth's sister married him. He is taking care of Geoffrey for us, as well as Mary."

"Oh," Grégoire said. "Mary is – "

"The woman with child, yes," Elizabeth said. "My younger sister. It is confusing, because I have four, and two are married."

"Yes," Grégoire said. "The one with a child."

Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged glances before he turned to his brother, "Do you know what I mean when I say, 'with child'?"

"Yes, of course."

"Because I don't mean, a child. I mean one _in the future_. She is pregnant."

At this, Grégoire stared in blank confusion. This stare was met with roars of barely-contained laughter between husband and wife.

"Perhaps before we go about our inquiries, dear husband, you should properly explain to your brother what that _means_."

"What? I assumed you would do it!"

"How could I? It would be most improper for a woman to explain it to a man, especially a monk!"

She had him, and he knew it. "This is true," he grumbled. "Brother Grégoire, I will have to explain to you where ... babies come from."

This, the monk could answer. "They come from marriage."

Holding himself up by his elbows was all Darcy could do from going face-first into the table with laughter. Of the two of them, Elizabeth recovered more quickly. "My sister is not married. Therefore, we may conjecture that they do not come _only_ from marriage."

"Oh," said Grégoire. And then he added, even more confused, "Oh."

Elizabeth got up from the table, taking her letters with her, and patting her husband on the shoulder. "This one is yours, darling. Enjoy."

"Lizzy! Lizzy, don't leave me here with this – horrible duty!"

But apparently, she did.

...Next Chapter – Going to the Chapel


	14. Going to the Chapel

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Note: I'm recovering. Thanks for all of your well wishing. Fortunately I wrote chapters ahead for this situation. Enjoy.

* * *

Chapter 14 – Going to the Chapel

Darcy slept uncharacteristically late, so much so that Elizabeth was actually up before him and deeply suspected he might well be sleeping off a hangover from yet another set of the best wines they had ever tasted. He had joined her in bed only very late, when she was nearly asleep, kissed her, and was out cold. So, she was reluctant to wake him.

When inquiring as to Grégoire's whereabouts, he had apparently gone to Mass, and the fact that he had done so at what was perhaps the most splendid cathedral in the world piqued her interest. Darcy would surely never allow her to travel about the center of Paris on her own, but Darcy wasn't awake to say so and she therefore didn't have to argue with him about it. She left a note on the bed stand and headed out into the fine spring sun and the cobbled streets of Paris.

It was not so terribly different from Town in many ways, aside from the language and the constant obvious English military presence, and some destroyed or empty buildings left over from the revolution. But she saw no guillotines, and knew enough French by now to have her way pointed to Notre Dame. She had seen Westminster, but this was a different building entirely. It was taller, and with its two towers in front, more imposing.

People were leaving from Mass. As this was not a Sunday, it was not especially crowded, and she entered without any trouble. The hall was massive, with endless, uncountable rows of wooden seats, and various people still scattered about, in silent contemplation before the massive altar and golden cross. Not immediately spotting Grégoire, her interest was attracted instead to a rather large altar of candles, some lit and some not, in front of a painting of who was obviously the Virgin Mary. Why did people from the bible always tilt their head in such a way? People were burning candles for their lost, and she must have been there for some time, because she did not hear Grégoire approach until he cleared his throat. "Mrs. Darcy."

"Grégoire," she said. "I did not see you."

"I was in confession." Looking up at the altar and the image, he crossed his chest.

"I suppose," Elizabeth said in a hushed voice, "G-d would be terribly confused if I lit a candle at a Catholic altar."

"G-d is all-knowing, and therefore, never confused," he replied. "Did you lose someone?"

"Something."

"It is not for lost items."

"Someone," she said, her voice betraying her emotion. "A child, though I was told not to think of it as that. I don't know what Darcy told you last night – "

He raised his hand. Obviously, not for a church, most of it.

" – but I miscarried, some months ago. And though, it was not a proper baby, I still feel ... like I've lost someone."

"Then light. G-d will not be confused, and He is the only one beyond us who will know."

She took one of the longer candles, meant for this purpose, and used it to light a smaller one on the racks without burning herself, then put it back in its container.

"Come," Grégoire said quietly. "I wish to show you something." To her great surprise, he actually put his hand on her shoulder and escorted her to a stain glass window, bearing amount its images, a bearded man in robes who did not seem to be Jesus, and beside him, a woman. "Abraham and Sarah. Sarah did not conceive until she was ninety-nine years old. She had given up hope to the point that G-d sent angels from heaven to tell them she would finally conceive, and she laughed at them. Have you heard this story?"

"Briefly. I am not as versed as you are, obviously." She had, in fact, only read the bible in its entirety once, and found the Old Testament to be full of impossible names and bizarre laws that she could not imagine anyone following. "But I do not want to wait until I am nearly a hundred, thank you."

"But you have already conceived, yes? My wording is correct?"

"Yes. But I am perhaps greedy, and want more. Is that such a terrible sin?"

"I would not call it greed. I cannot presume to know a mother's longing," he said. "There is also the story of the mother of Samuel, one of the old Jew prophets, who prayed to G-d for a child, and then delivered one of the most important people in their ancient history."

She knew what he was trying to say, and knew that logically, it should comfort her, but she still wanted to – needed to – cry. Before she knew it, she was leaning on his shoulder, and he was embracing her as she sobbed into his harsh wool robe. When a priest approached them, he said something in French, and the priest went away, but otherwise, he waited until she was spent, and slowly, they made their way from the church.

"What did you say to him?"

"That you were my sister-in-law, and that he should go away," he said. "Most ... improper of me."

Elizabeth could not help but laugh. It felt wonderful.

* * *

They returned to Darcy eating breakfast, or more accurately, lunch. "I read your note."

"And raced right to my side, I noticed," Elizabeth said, and kissed him on the head, to which he winced. So he was hung-over.

"I trusted your monastic escort," he said. "We should perhaps be off to the seminary. It requires only a short ride."

They had planned this out. The seminary was English, and they would not hurt whatever good opinion the seminary might still have had of her. It was a modest building, and they applied to the office of the Headmistress, who looked a bit mystified at the trio of an English gentlemen, his wife, and a French monk. "Sir and madame."

"Mr. and Mrs. Darcy," Darcy said. "My wife is a sister to a former student of yours, Miss Mary Bennet."

"Oh, yes," she said. "She left a little over a month ago. Withdrawn – she said one of her sisters was ill."

Maybe that was true on some level – but they were not here to contradict her. Elizabeth said merely, "She thinks she may have left something here in the dormitory, and we were traveling in the area with our guide here. May we see for ourselves? It was an important item to her."

"I do not believe she did, but you may enter, Mrs. Darcy. But this is a girl's seminary, and you will understand that your husband and escort will have to remain in the front offices."

"Of course," Mr. Darcy said in his most official, proper Englishmen voice, which was all very convincing. "Mrs. Darcy, we shall wait outside for you. Take as long as you like."

There were all of the proper boys and curtseys, and Elizabeth was escorted through the dormitories to Mary's room, which was shared with another girl, from her belongings in evidence. Mary's side was empty, of course. "Not filled yet," said the Headmistress. "Because of fears of war with France again."

"I see," Elizabeth said, and made a cursory inspection of Mary's side of the room. "May I perhaps speak to her roommate? I do not wish to go through another woman's things."

"Of course. I'll have Miss Talbot fetched at once."

Elizabeth did not have to wait long before a girl Mary's age appeared and they curtseyed, and the headmistress left them alone. "I am sorry to take you from your classes," Elizabeth said, "but this is a matter of some import."

"Yes," Miss Talbot said. "If I may inquire which sister – "

"Elizabeth. Commonly known as Lizzy." For she had been introduced only as 'Mrs. Darcy.' "I am second; Mary is third. I've come to inquire after her ... doings here."

"From England?" Miss Talbot said.

"Yes," she said with severity.

"Oh. Then, I suppose, I must mention immediately that I am not unknowing in Mary's personal ... affairs."

"Thank goodness I have found someone who can tell me something," Elizabeth said, her voice now welcoming, but hushed. "You know why she left so quickly."

"Yes."

"Does anyone else know?"

"I do not believe so. Aside from Giovanni, of course."

"Did you know him?"

"Only of him. She met him tutoring, as she probably told you. And she was quite broken up over her own indiscretion."

Elizabeth bade her to sit down, so she was more at ease. "So she was not forced."

"No, she said not, and I believe her. Of course, a great deal of the blame does still fall on Giovanni. Excuse me that I do not know his full name and cannot refer to him properly, even though honestly, I have no wish to. Though I do know he did offer her some – compensation."

"Did Mary say how much?"

"No. You know more of your sister than I do, but Mary took it all on herself, though I can hardly imagine she was not in some way seduced. But she knew him for quite a while beforehand. Some months. And she did speak of him more often than she did of any of her other students, none of whom were male."

"Was there genuine affection?"

Miss Talbot answered, "I believe so."

"But he refused marriage."

"He could not, of course. He must be a priest and then a bishop. He has gone to Rome to study in a seminary there. He did not even want to be one – he wanted to go to the Noble Guard, or so she told me, but he has fits, and they would not take him because of his condition."

"Fits?"

"Epilepsy, I believe."

Now the picture was becoming clearer. "So you believe he is in Rome. Mary was not sure."

"I made one inquiry myself, after she left. She was a good friend to me, and I felt it was deserved. But when I went to his family's house, they said he was returned to study in Rome, though he retire to the family estate in Italy for the summer. It is apparently terribly hot and buggy during that season and even the Pope often goes elsewhere during the hottest months." She sighed. "That is all I can tell you. I wish, for her sake, I had more to say."

"You have been invaluable, Miss Talbot."

"May I ask how she is? She was worried that her father would be disapproving."

"He was – but he loves her, and they are all staying with my sister's husband in the north, where he and my husband have estates. Mr. Darcy and I are to find this Giovanni, and try and reach a settlement with him, so that Mary will not be destitute. But she is within the bosom of her family, who is perhaps not half as harsh on her as she is on herself."

"That is good to hear. Thank you, Mrs. Darcy. Please send her my regards, and that I hope to see her when I return to England and she can be seen."

"I will gladly do so," Elizabeth said, and they said their good-byes. As soon as she was gone, Elizabeth rushed out of the seminary to find her husband and brother-in-law sitting on the bench. "It seems we must be off to Rome. He is studying in a seminary there, but may retire to his family estate for the summer."

This was not unexpected, but it made Darcy frown anyway. "Then we must cut out visit to this lovely city short, my dear, and make arrangements otherwise. But first, my brother needs some glasses." In response to Grégoire's cough, Darcy said. "Excuse me. I am apparently in need of some spectacles that may happen to fit for my brother."

"Of course," Elizabeth said.

* * *

It took another day to make all of the arrangements. They would go straight south to Marsielle, and take a boat to Italy, which would hopefully be a shortcut, as it would land them only a few dozen from Rome at most. Darcy purchased the services of the swiftest but most comfortable carriage available to take them directly south, and Elizabeth wrote and sent letters to England details their exact itinerary. It was late on their second day that the Darcys retired to their own room.

"On the way back, perhaps, we will have time to see things proper," Darcy said. "If you wish. Or you may be eager to return to England."

"How long can we expect to be in Rome?"

"If he is there, and agrees to a settlement, then we must send the proposal to Mr. Bennet and he must reply if he agrees or not. So, perhaps as long as month." He frowned at his own estimations. "We will be hard-pressed to return to England in time for your sister's delivery if there is any hold-up. And there is the matter if we return to Kirkland to find it still standing after our son living there for so long."

At the mention of Geoffrey, Elizabeth drew closer to him. Now that they had a proper bed with enough room, it felt positively odd to not be forced to her husband's side the entire night, quite literally, for lack of space, and she missed the intimacy. "I miss him."

"As do I." Darcy sighed. "But perhaps he will learn some independence – the good kind. And we will be returning with a new uncle for him."

"Have you spoken to Grégoire on this or have you just decided?"

"'Just decided,'" he said. "He is wasted in that awful monastery."

"That does not mean he is not meant to be a proper English gentlemen. His devotion to his religion is real, Darcy."

"I am not discounting it. But he should see his father's grave, and Pemberley, at least once in his life. Surely he cannot put argument with that."

"If you say it in the way that you say things when you want no such argument, then yes. Which you are intending to do."

"Lizzy, you can read me quite well."

"You are realizing this just now?" she said, happily nestled into his shoulder. "But, truly, do not be harsh on him. If he wishes to be a monk, let him be a monk."

"Perhaps," Darcy said. "But maybe somewhere else – closer. Ireland, maybe. There must be a suitable monastery in Ireland. It would take some adjustment on his part but then ... he would be closer. Lizzy, what do you find so funny?"

"For all of your jokes about sending your sister to a nunnery," she said, "now you seek to toss your brother out of one."

"Technically half-brother. But yes, there is some irony in that. Or karma, as Bingley would say."

"What?"

"I've no idea, either," he admitted. "He's positively obsessed with the ways of the Indians."

"Where that interest came into his brain, I have no idea."

He smiled. "I love you."

"I admit to some fondness for you as well."

"You intentionally torture me," Darcy said. "See? All we have to do is get Grégoire a good woman with your wit and he will have his hands full."

"I cannot quite imagine him even approaching a woman."

"Wouldn't know what to do with her, despite my detailed description the other night," he said. "I suppose I could conspire against him the same way ..." But realizing where he was going, he trailed off and fell silent.

Elizabeth nearly climbed on top of him. "Darcy! What do you mean?"

"Uhm, I am inclined to keep my mouth shut at this point."

"Then I am inclined to hear what you have to say. In fact, I am positively inclined to demand it of you, Mr. Darcy."

Darcy put a hand over his eyes so he didn't have to look at her. "Very well. Again, I am at your mercy, and must tell you a story that reflects well of neither person in it."

"Since we said his name would be unspoken – "

" – we shall not speak it. But suffice to say, there was a time, during my first semester in Cambridge, when a certain person who may or may not have been an older brother designed upon me that I should overcome my shyness and ... become a man, as he put it." Sensing from her body language that she had no objections to this story, and was most enjoying it, he continued, "Rather drastic measures were taken."

"Drastic?"

"To be blunt, he purchased the services of a courtesan, got me soused, and then locked me in a room with her, and would not unbolt it despite all of my protests." He added, "I have to admit, it did the job admirably."

There was a moment of silence before they both erupted in laughter.

"You of course cannot employ this on poor Grégoire," she finally said. "_Brother_ Grégoire."

"I suppose. If he is truly devout, then we will at least have a _discussion_ before he takes his final vows and forces himself to a life without a lovely woman by his side. A very lovely woman." He kissed her. "Lizzy, I could not have done this without you."

"Saved my sister? You did the job admirably once without my knowledge. You're becoming an expert on saving Bennet girls."

"That is not what I mean, and you know it," he said. "I love you."

"And I cannot imagine my life without you," she said. "I love you."

Despite the fact that they were to leave early the next morning, and the strain of traveling, and the emotional turmoil the dual situations wrecked on them both, the Darcys found enough peace for themselves that night as husband and wife. And in the morning, they were ready for the long journey ahead of them, arms clasped tightly together.

Next Chapter – Fire and Lies


	15. Fire and Lies

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Note: This is my last update before vacation at Pennsic. See you in two weeks.

* * *

Chapter 15 – Fire and Lies 

"I'm not going to have to shave my head, am I?"

"I don't believe so," Daniel Maddox said as he found the spot at last, a suspicious lump between brown hairs that he approached with his tweezers. "It appears to merely be a tick of some kind, not lice."

"Good," said the Regent. "How did I get a tick? What is a tick?"

"By perhaps putting your head on an unsanitary mattress. And I believe it is a type of beetle," he replied, and motioned to the servant for the bottle of whiskey. "This may sting a bit. Hold your head still, please, Your Royal Highness."

The Prince Regent managed to do so, and Maddox poured a small amount of alcohol on the site, causing the embedded bug to pull back so he could pull it out. "Scissors."

"My hair!"

"Only a snip, Your Highness," he said as the servant took the bottle from him and handed him the scissors. Unfortunately, the tick was also wrapped in hair, which he snipped, and at last had the insect in his tweezers. "Jar, please." And the jar was handed to him, where he deposited it and sealed the jar.

The Prince looked around. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Try to determine the species. But you should be fine, Your Highness. Though, if I may recommend, you keep your head and any other hairy areas away from whatever conditions you previously subjected them to. These things can carry disease." He looked at the bottle as he replaced his glasses, and that was when he noticed a man in a white undergarment charge into the room, apparently enraptured by what he was holding.

"'And thus sayth the Lord,' burn it with fire!" said the wiry man with white hair, before walking across the room, back again, and then out the opposite door.

While Maddox was gathering his reaction to the spectacle, the Prince chuckled. "You probably should have bowed to your king."

"That – "

" – was my father, yes. But you did not recognize it, so I'll excuse it this time. And all other times that he's completely out of his head." The Regent gave him an encouraging slap on the back. "You can see why I am essentially the ruler now, eh?"

"I ... have no comment."

"Discreet as always. Well, everyone knows he's batty, anyway. He called me king, once," the Regent said, taking the whiskey from the table and taking a swig himself. "King of Prussia, to be precise."

To this, Maddox had a very hard time not responding.

* * *

When Doctor Maddox returned to his townhouse, his wife was there to greet him. "Charles is here. He's joining us for dinner." 

"Is there some news?"

"No, but he had business. Or needed a break from the Bennets," she said as the servant removed his complicated and expensive wig, and he fluffed his hair back up. "How's the Prince?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"I was just curious," she said, kissing him on the cheek as she escorted him to greet their guest. Charles Bingley was in the sitting room, reading a book that he did not recognize. They bowed to each other, and Maddox excused himself to properly change.

"Georgiana is joining us as well – am I correct in that?" he said at his dressing station.

"Yes. But Louisa and Mr. Hurst have another engagement, so it's just us." She laid back on the chaise, and he smiled unintentionally, because she was beginning to show. "So how is the Regent?"

"He is fine, and that is all I will say on the matter."

"So discreet."

"It is what he pays me for," he said, and excused himself to bathe. By the time he was washed up and dressed, it was nearly time for dinner, and Georgiana Darcy had arrived.

"I've gotten a letter from Elizabeth," she said, as they gathered, and Charles put his book away. "She even sent a little picture of Notre Dame. Doctor, have you seen it?"

"Many times," he said as the card with an etching of the grand cathedral was passed to him. He gave it to his wife. "A most impressive building."

"So she says. They are going south now, to catch a boat to Rome."

"I received a letter from Darcy a few days ago," Bingley said. "So they must be some ways south of Paris by now, as they were just then getting back on the road."

"They are going all the way by carriage? If only there was some better way and still as quickly," Maddox said.

"Oh, and they've hired a guide, too. A monk named Grégoire ... Bellamont," she said, having to check the name. At this, Bingley's ears seemed to perk up.

"I'm sorry, I missed that. What did you say the guide's name was?"

"Grégoire Bellamont. A local from the west. Speaks several languages. I don't know – she doesn't describe him further."

Bingley shrugged it off, and Maddox noticed the distinct shrug of someone with something else on his mind. But he would not press his guest. "Does she mention anything else?"

"Only that she has little time to write," Georgiana said, putting the letter away. "Mr. Bingley, what in the world are you reading?"

Because the book did have mysterious characters on its cover, alongside English ones. "It is a book on the various languages of the Indias. Did you know there are twenty-seven?"

"Charles, if you intend to learn them all, we must find you another hobby," Caroline said.

"Yes," Maddox said. "Where this Bingley family obsession with languages comes from, I have no idea. Most perplexing."

For that he got two looks – a stern one from Caroline for undercutting the chastising of her brother, and a thankful one from Charles. Fortunately, the dinner bell rang and the line of conversation did not have to be pursued.

Over dinner, Charles pronounced that everyone currently residing in his household was just fine, and that Georgie had finally said her first word. "Actually, it was a whole sentence."

"My goodness," said his sister.

"Yes. Apparently she was just saving up or something," he said. "My wife was right on the floor. I would have been if I hadn't been carrying Geoffrey at the time."

"Carrying or throttling?"

"_Carrying_, Caroline," he said. "The second came later, but that is another story entirely."

"From Eliza's side, no doubt."

"I will have to correct you, and say that with all due respect to Darcy, I've known him since his college days and heard enough stories to say that he may have contributed to a certain child's personality. Or told you enough stories. Far too many stories." He decided to change the subject entirely away from sibling banter. "So, how is our Regent? Or I suppose you can't tell us."

"I've never yet told you anything about a patient who wasn't a direct relative of yours or mine, and I don't intend to start now," Maddox said as the second soup course was served.

"Have you met the king?"

"As he is not a patient, there I can relent and say yes, I have met the king. Today, in fact. Only, we were not properly introduced, because I was an anonymous servant of his son and he was completely out of his mind when he came in the room."

"Now you have to finish the story," Caroline insisted in the way that only she could insist.

"It is not a very long story. He came into the room half-dressed, told me to kill it with fire – not explaining what he referred to – walked around a bit, and left."

"You saw His Majesty in his undergarments?" Georgiana whispered, as everyone was obviously suppressing their laughter.

"Apparently I did. I didn't actually recognize him at the time and I was not told who he was until he was gone."

"Darling," his wife said, "I must comment that you seem terrible at recognizing royals." This, she did not explain to their guests.

Bingley was staying the night, to leave for Derbyshire in the morning. It was not until Caroline retired and Georgiana went home that the gentlemen were left alone, and Maddox finally got to inquire as to Bingley's sudden appearance.

"Some business, some buying of books, some pleasure," he said. "Though my sister would not be overly fond of the idea that the Bingley family is still secretly involved in trade. She thinks I am an idle gentlemen. Then again, she did not marry an idle gentlemen, so maybe she has warmed to the idea."

"Perhaps," the doctor said with a smile as they shared a glass.

"So I suppose her confinement will have to be in Town. And I was going to invite you to Kirkland. Perhaps you will not mind a semi-frequent guest?"

"Of course not," Maddox said.

"She is getting along well? Jane has been wonderful, but I think the twins have worn her out. G-d help me if she gets pregnant again anytime soon."

"Caroline is doing fine," Maddox said with a smile, amused at Bingley's concern for his sister. "Her only complaint so far has been that she is going to need her gowns adjusted, because she will not go about the house in nightclothes like so many women. Or, that's how she puts it."

Bingley shook his head completely knowingly. "And how is the royal commission?"

"Not particularly taxing, I must admit. The Regent is actually in excellent health, and I am enjoying having London University open to me. There have been a few advances since I was last in school. And something tells me I am about to be a busy man."

"A proper gentlemen has little to do with infants," Bingley said. "Or any sort of real business. My, I am the most terrible proper gentlemen in the world."

"I, as well."

To that, they raised their glasses and clinked them together.

* * *

Bingley's other business, quickly dispensed, was advising Georgiana away from Kirkland for a while, as the Wickhams had responded and would be in shortly. To this she had little comment, and with that dispatched, Bingley made the long journey back up to Kirkland by horseback, with the books being sent up behind him. He arrived mid-day, but it was Kitty who greeted him as the servants removed his coat and hat. "Jane is retired." 

"What? Is she all right?"

"The doctor says she's fine."

"_Doctor_?" He resisted the urge to throttle his sister-in-law for more information. "Where is this doctor?"

"It's the local one. We just called for him this morning, after she passed out – "

"_She passed out_?"

Kitty now seemed a bit intimidated by his alarm. "The doctor is upstairs, I believe."

He did not even take the time to bow. "Miss Bennet." And then he was up the stairs like a madman, using the railing to hurl himself around the corner and nearly clobbering into Dr. Michaels, a local Derbyshire man who came with Darcy's recommendation when they moved into the county. "How is she? What happened? Where's my wife?"

The aged doctor, apparently accustomed to the overly-concerned husband, said, "She is resting. She had a fainting spell and I was called."

"She's not – is she with child?"

"No, she is not."

Bingley heaved a sigh of relief. Yes, he did eventually want more children, but not _now_. "Then what is it?"

"I believe nursing two infants and taking charge of a household is a bit taxing on Mrs. Bingley. I have recommended the employ of a wet nurse, for her sake."

"Yes. Yes, of course, it shall be done. Thank you, doctor. Now if you'll excuse me – " And he didn't wait a moment longer. He ran right around him and stormed into his wife's bedchamber.

"Mr. Bingley!" Mrs. Bennet said, rising from the bedside. "You've – "

"Mrs. Bennet," he said with only a cursory bow, and sat down beside his wife, who looked little pale, but otherwise, fine, and took her hand. "Jane. I'm so sorry – "

"There is nothing to be sorry about. It is a fuss over nothing. Mama."

Mrs. Bennet apparently had things to say to Bingley, but for the moment she knew her place enough to leave husband and wife alone, closing the door behind her. Bingley kissed Jane on the cheek. "I had no idea. I left Town this morning – "

"It was nothing. I am just a bit tired, from all of this nursing, and I didn't eat enough this morning, and _no_, I am not pregnant."

"Is it so horrible that we are both happy for that?"

"Heavens no. It would be terrible timing." She stroked his cheek. "Charles."

"I am so sorry I wasn't here. I should have been here."

"Yes, and you should have had proper foresight to see that your wife would spontaneously and without proper cause collapse. I should have married a psychic, clearly."

So, she could still joke, and that eased the pain in his heart somewhat. "The doctor – I only spoke to him briefly, but he said we should have a wet nurse."

"As my mother has always insisted. But it was not a problem for Georgie."

"Because there was only one Georgie."

"Yes." She tightened her grip on his hand. "Charles, I am _fine_. Stop worrying."

"I will never stop worrying about you," he said. "You will always be my chief concern. And I will now take your mother's side – something I never expected to do – and insist upon a wet nurse."

"And I am actually going to agree with you. But tell me – is there any news from Town?"

He stripped off his waistcoat and laid down next to her, if only so he could be closer to her without her getting up. "Everyone is fine. My sister is doing well, and Doctor Maddox met the king."

"He did?"

"Not very formally. His Majesty merely ran into the room, said some nonsense, and then ran right out before the poor doctor could recognize him, much less properly bow, apparently."

Jane's laughter was such a wonderful sound.

"Oh, and there is something perhaps I shouldn't say, which means that I shall," he said. "Georgiana received a letter from Elizabeth, mainly reiterating what she wrote to us, but mentioning something – perhaps by accident – that was not in our letter."

"Oh?"

He nodded. "The name of their monkish guide. Grégoire Bellamont."

She put her hands over her mouth. "_No!_"

"I see we are on the same line of suspicious thought."

"They may have some explaining to do when they return to the country."

"Oh, yes. But until then, if Darcy is inclined to keep it to himself and Elizabeth is inclined to do the same, we should hardly interfere."

"Agreed."

Further conversation was interrupted by the doorbell. Bingley threw on his waistcoat and went out into the hall to greet his guests. The Wickhams had arrived.

* * *

Bingley supposed that in another world, he would be friends with George Wickham. Both men were excessively good at being hospitable and charming, and on the surface, they got along excessively well, as it turned out. (If their first meeting was stricken from the record) If Bingley could bring himself to forget all of the past injustices this man had been party to or been the villain in, he could very well have enjoyed his company. And, he was also busy looking at the Wickham children, a girl about four and a boy about two. They were named George Wickham (the third) and Isabella, and he tried to keep his staring at a minimum, because there was no one he was willing to explain to that he was looking for familial similarities. There were few to none. True, George and Darcy did not resemble each other, or the ruse (if there was a ruse at all and it was not Bingley's idle suspicions) would have been given up long ago. But Darcy, by portrait, favored his mother, and Wickham his. So Bingley said nothing as he greeted them – not that he would have if the two children had been outright Darcy clones. 

There were many introductions to be made, because Mr. Bennet had met neither of these two grandchildren, and Geoffrey and Georgie had never meant their Aunt Lydia. When asked, Bingley merely said Jane was resting and would join them later, and the Bingley twins were brought in, and there was much comparing and speculation about height and intelligence by brightness of the eyes and all that. Mrs. Bennet was in heaven, being utterly surrounded by her grandchildren and finally getting to see her precious Lydia without going alone to Newcastle, and Mr. Bennet did seem to show some affection when holding his grandson George, even if he gave the father of that child a very cold glare every time he could.

And then there was the business of Mary. They had decided to not hide her pregnancy, as at this point it would have taken a bit of camouflage, and the squeal from Lydia nearly broke most of the men's eardrums, and the three of them found it advantageous to retire to the next room, where Mr. Bennet sat happily with one of his three grandsons in his lap.

"Welcome to Kirkland, Mr. Wickham," Bingley said. "It does get a bit ... crazy here. Sometimes." He was just glad Geoffrey and Georgie had returned, at least, to their normal skin tones and that he didn't have to explain _that_ incident.

"I can imagine. Quite vividly, actually, with all of the people in the next room. Lovely house, though. So I hear the Darcys are on the Continent?"

"Traveling, yes." He did not elaborate. "They will be back in time for various – things. My sister is also approaching confinement."

"My apologies if I forget her name. Carol?"

"Caroline. Caroline Maddox, now. Her husband is a physician. They live in Town, near my other sister and her husband." In his arms, his own son began to whimper. "What is it? Do you want your mother? You're running her ragged, you know that?" He quickly passed his son off to Nurse.

"How old is he?"

"Seven months. And his sister, Eliza, if it all got too confusing."

"Of course. Named after Elizabeth. Isabella is named after my mother."

Well, that part Wickham had right. Probably.

It took a long time to get all the children put down or in their right places before the adults could sit down for dinner, with Bingley at the head of his massive conglomerate household. Jane joined them just in time, having regained her color, and he often found himself holding her hand under the table as Wickham did his best to delight them with military rumors. Not that hearing about disturbances in France was going to put anyone at ease with the Darcys there, but he probably missed that subtlety and no one was willing to point it out. The point was, Mrs. Bennet was delighted in having her daughter at her side "at a proper table" again (implying, however unintentionally, that the Wickham table was not so proper), and when his mother-in-law was happy, Bingley was inclined to feel some of it. And Mr. Bennet kept quiet, but was not as stand-offish as Bingley and Jane had expected him to be, taking a great delight in hearing tales of his grandchildren, irregardless of their parentage.

"And Isabel said the cutest thing the other day ..."

For Lydia, it seemed, had grown into her accepted role as mother, at least to a presentable extent. However much she whined about money and living conditions in her letters, she did none of it at the table.

The gentlemen retired to the library, and Wickham excused himself to smoke when Mr. Bennet mentioned a particular physical intolerance for the stuff, leaving the two of them alone to share a glass of port. "How was Town?"

"Fine. I would have come sooner if – "

" – you saw the future and knew Jane would take a spill. Despite my own fatherly instincts, I cannot hold it against you on the basis of pure logic," Mr. Bennet said. "Did you see Miss Darcy? Does she have any news?"

"Very little we do not have."

"Yes, yes, all of the letters seem to match up," Mr. Bennet said. "Sort of."

Bingley lowered his glass.

"What I mean to say, of course, is that I've noticed that the letters we're all getting are slightly different when lined up. As can be expected on some level, because Lizzy will only write calming letters to Mrs. Bennet and more pertinent material pertaining to Mary to me, and Mr. Darcy hardly says anything at all beyond their itinerary. Which, if you look at the map, has a lot of inconsistencies."

"You've – been studying this?"

"I am perhaps bored in my old age," Mr. Bennet said, knowing it was no excuse. "Or maybe I smell not quite a ruse, but something else going on. And judging from your reaction, you have your own suspicions as well."

Bingley frowned and leaned against the bookshelf. "I will not lie to you. I think Darcy has found some family business there he did not expect to find. But it has nothing to do with Miss Bennet's situation and I don't think there is any real 'ruse' here. In fact, if it is anything at all, I have a feeling it will all come out when they return."

"Perhaps," was all Mr. Bennet had to say to that.

... Next Chapter – Stumbling Block


	16. Stumbling Block

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

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Chapter 16 – Stumbling Block

(Please note: I relied heavily on babelfish for this chapter because I don't actually know French, so if you actually know French, you may be laughing at what I wrote.)

The Darcys made haste south, as fast as the carriage would take them, often through the night until they were all equally exhausted. The roads had tried up as the weather changed and they made further south, and Grégoire did not insist on walking beside the carriage, and was eating better, so he was managing better, though he did rise earlier to hear local masses when they stopped in a town with a proper church. Despite the roughness of a carriage ride, with enough pillows, they all got very good at sleeping along the ride, and Elizabeth remarked that yes, she had seen quite enough French countryside.

As they passed beyond the reaches of real English presence, Darcy took Grégoire aside one night in yet another nameless, rundown inn. "If we are attacked, I am prepared, but I am only one man. But Elizabeth's life is paramount to me. And her honor." He did not explain what he meant by the last bit – if Grégoire missed the reference, he wasn't going to spell it out. "I'm not asking you for anything beyond translation. Obviously, I assume you are a pacifist. The church does not spill blood, does it?"

"No," Grégoire said.

"Then at least, stay behind me, for G-d forbid, something should happen."

"G-d forbid." Grégoire crossed himself.

For Darcy was more than aware of the danger of the roads. He would have a whole honor guard for his wife if not for the fact that frankly, he had little faith in his welfare in the hands of someone who fought for hire in these regions. These concerns he did not express with Elizabeth, a rarity in his case. This was his responsibility, as a husband and a gentleman, to protect his wife.

His fears were not unfounded.

They had been going through the night again, in an attempt to make Marsielle by the next morning, when they could finally rest aboard the ship that would take them to Italy. The moon provided little light and the coachmen said there was nowhere to stop for miles, so the decision was made for them. In fact, it was now so late that Darcy was asleep with Elizabeth leaning on him when the faint sound of pistol. It was in the distance, maybe even far away enough for them to remain uninvolved, or so he judged as he snapped awake. Elizabeth and Grégoire were slower risers, and without explaining anything, he dragged the monk out of the carriage, carrying his sword and pistol, neither of which he had ever used in his life beyond basic instruction. But, he was good enough with the sword, if it came to that.

"Darcy?"

He whispered, "Elizabeth, stay in the carriage."

In the woods, there was only silence. They were alone on the road, and there was a cold breeze. The coachman said something to Grégoire, who translated. "There's someone in the woods. Several people."

Darcy shielded his eyes from the lantern light, so as not to destroy his night vision. Yes, something was out there. Someone. In fact, there was movement in the woods, and it took all of Darcy's abilities as an athlete to know when to dodge and force his brother to the ground with him. The bullet meant for one of them hit the side of the carriage instead, bouncing off the metal from the axel.

It was when they were on the ground that they approached. Three men, maybe four – it was hard to tell in the utter darkness they emerged from, obviously bandits. It was Grégoire who put himself in front of Darcy. "_Svp, nous vous voulons dire aucun mal_!" (_"Please, we mean you no harm!")_

The first man to come close enough so that his dirty face could be seen in the light laughed and said, "_Chariot de fantaisie pour un moine_." _("Fancy carriage for a monk.")_

"_Nous sommes juste de pauvres voyageurs!"_ (_"We are just poor travelers!")_

"_Il ne regarde pas si pauvre_," said the man next to him, cocking his gun at Darcy, who drew his. _("He doesn't look so poor.")_

"Tell him if he comes any closer, I'll shoot him in the head," Darcy said, hoping his own words would convey some meaning with their intensity.

There was laughter all around the carriage, but not from the passengers.

"_Jugez-le droit là!_" (_"Hold it right there!")_

They all turned, because this voice did not came from them, and the clumping of horse hooves was clearly unexpected by both parties. What little the moon at this stage offered was the vague portrait of a man in a tall hat riding up on horseback. "_Garde Nationale ! Énoncez vos affaires!_" (_"Police. State your business!")_

"_Excusez-moi, monsieur, mais ces hommes ont tiré à nous!_" Grégoire insisted. (_"Excuse me, sir, but these men have shot at us!")_

The man on the horse responded by lowering his bayonet in the direction of the men he towered over and firing his whistle to signal. "_Gardes! Attaque_!" (_"Guards! Attack!")_

"He's a nationalist guard," Grégoire whispered to Darcy. "He's called for his squadron, I believe."

If that was true or not, the bandits were taking no chances. They scattered into the night, and the man in the tall hat did not pursue. He whistled a few more times, but no one came. Instead, he climbed off his horse, holstered his bayonet, and shuffled towards them. He had sort of a limp, and a black beard, and was, as they saw when he came into the light of the lamp hanging off the carriage, in a guard uniform of French colors. "My G-d," he said. "Just in time." His accent was perfectly English, probably a Londoner.

Darcy blinked, and took the lantern down and held it up as the man approached. "Hello? Who goes there?"

"When I get this damned thing off, you'll be able to tell!" the guard said, pulling at his beard. "This gum is damned itchy. I'm sure to have a rash in the morning."

"_Excusez-moi_?" Grégoire inquired, and they heard a noise behind them. Fortunately, it was only Elizabeth finally coming out of the carriage.

"Elizabeth!" Darcy put his gun back in his belt and embraced her. "Are you all right?"

"Aside from feeling quite useless, yes," she said, and curtseyed to the man in the guard uniform, who was at the moment, pulling off his beard. "Mr. Maddox."

"Mrs. Darcy," Brian Maddox said, his cheeks red from the glue from the fake beard. "Mr. Darcy. And Brother Grégoire, I believe. We've not been formally introduced." He bowed slightly crooked, as he had to do since his injuries at Pemberley.

"You've ...," Darcy said, stunned at both the appearance of a man he considered vaguely an enemy and the fact that this same man had clearly saved all of their lives, "... joined the nationalist guard?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Brian Maddox removed his giant hat, and shook out his mane of black hair. "I won the outfit off an officer with an exceptionally good hand. Literally, the shirt off his back. I don't always lose at gambling, you know."

"That doesn't quite explain why you're here, but I'm grateful that you are," Darcy said. "Thank you. Let me please make the formal introductions for Brother Grégoire. Brother, this is Brian Maddox, who is distantly related to me by marriage through his brother, the Doctor Maddox we write to in Town."

"Pleased to meet you," Grégoire bowed, and Maddox, the same.

"Well, if you must know the whole story, then we'd best be on our way, in case they figure out I don't have a squadron behind me. Coachman?" He nodded to him. "There's an inn not five miles up the road, but you have to turn off at a certain point. I'll show the way." He climbed back on his horse, and Darcy realized they had no choice but to follow him.

The inn was warm and lit, and though it was late, they were all quite shaken from the experience, and not ready to sleep yet, so they joined Brian Maddox, now sans military costume beyond his gun, at a table where he ordered a round. "I have some credit here. I am a courier and I delivered something important for them once without charge. Not really because I wanted to, but that is another story. I suppose you first wish to know what I'm doing here."

"Yes, please," Elizabeth said, because she knew she would say it more nicely than Darcy, who did not look willing to give up his old suspicions just yet.

"Well, I hope you won't tell Danny I did this, because it's precisely the opposite of what he asked me to do. He knew I was in France, or in the general vicinity of it, so he asked me to stay out of your way. Now he may have been down these roads a long time ago, but it's not the same under the Emperor or whatever he's calling himself these days – first it was king, I think. Anyway, I figured I owed you a favor for saving my life by not calling the constable on me back in Derbyshire, so I thought I'd see that you stayed out of trouble, or at least made it to Italy alive."

"And so you impersonated a guard?" Darcy said.

"Lucky I had the outfit, no? Lady Luck and I have a love-hate relationship. Thus, I've been tailing you since you arrived, and quite well apparently, if you haven't noticed me yet. You ought to be more careful."

"We are indebted to you, sir," Grégoire said with a bow of his head.

"It's more like a debt repaid. And I was going in this direction anyway, so no harm done, except to the carriage. And even that wasn't much, compared to what those men could have done."

"I prefer not to think of it," Darcy said, unconsciously putting his arm around Elizabeth. "So you know our intended journey's destination?"

"I've gotten some details from Danny in letter form, the rest from listening to you." He was not afraid of their stares. "Hey, a man's got to keep himself entertained. But I think we are in mutual agreement to keep to ourselves about actions of both parties."

"Certainly," said Darcy. "Have you received any recent correspondences from your brother?"

"Yes. I don't suppose you know, but he recently received a royal commission. My brother, physician to the Prince Regent himself! I always knew he could restore the family honor. And his wife seems like the type of woman that would sure like to be _Lady _Maddox, if you know what I mean."

Darcy and Elizabeth exchanged smiles.

"How is he, by the way? I mean, besides what he writes. You've seen him more recently than I have. And I know my sister-in-law is with child, so he must be doing something right."

"He seems to be doing very well," Elizabeth said. "Very well, it seems. But when we left, he was very happy with his arrangements."

Brian had a warm smile on his face at this. He always was very agreeable, but there was something in his face that lit up when speaking of his brother. "That's just brilliant. If anyone deserves to be happy, 'tis Danny. But, you can fill me in later. If you don't mind, I'd like to go with you to Marsielle and catch that boat."

"Going to Rome?"

"G-d, no. And end up in the Tiber? There are ... uh, reasons I can't go to Rome." He shrugged it off. "You know. People who – I may or may not owe money. And there's so many bodies in that river, they're not going to notice another one. Oops, should I be saying this in front of a monk?"

"It is a city, not a monastery," Grégoire said. "The Holy City, but I am not immune to tales of the past."

"A very logical perspective," said Darcy.

"Aye, he might make an Englishmen after all," Brian said, and did not further explain. Apparently, he did not need to.

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Doctor Maddox had a lot on his mind. He hadn't heard from his brother in a few weeks – probably a good sign – but it was really the least of his worries. Though his job, truth be told, was not honestly very taxing, and provided him with endless access to the University libraries, and his primary patient was in relative health provided he didn't pick up some venereal disease, but several things still weighted on his mind. The Darcys had been gone two months now, and Kirkland was, from Bingley's description, a madhouse of children and Bennets. Bingley, despite owning his own townhouse (occupied by the Hursts year-round, largely), was in town to check on his sister, though he usually gave a more business-related reason. Maddox did nothing to stem the tide of brotherly affection. Louisa Hurst was barren, and further from him in age, but apparently, Charles and Caroline had once been quite close, and now she was to go through the most difficult thing asked of a woman. Elizabeth had miscarried, and Jane was suffering under the strain of merely nursing twins.

But, in fact, Caroline seemed content when she was not losing her lunch, which had calmed down after the first few months. She was mildly annoyed as she began to retire from social life before her formal confinement, drawing nearer every day, and he did his best with his new free time to keep her amused.

In fact, one morning his schedule was particularly empty, as most of his patients requested night calls and he no lectures on his schedule, and so when the servant approached him about a woman at the door who would not give her name, he straightened his waistcoat and went down the stairs, opening the door again himself. "Hello – "

It was Lilly, the prostitute. A very, very pregnant Lilly the prostitute.

"Lilly!" Maddox said. "It is certainly a – uhm, surprise to see you here."

"Doctor," she said. "So sorry fer intrudin.' Can I come in?"

Or having her stand around in broad daylight in front of his townhouse. "Of course. How did you find the place?"

"Asked 'round."

"Of course. Of course." He shooed the attending servants away, except to ask for some tea. "I – uh, didn't expect to see you. At my house."

"Lovely place. Musta cost a fortune. Done well fer yerself, doc."

"It was a wedding present."

"Like I said. Yeh don' mind if I be sitting down on your fine – "

"Oh! No, no, of course not," he stammered, because he could hardly expect a woman – a very expectant woman – to keep standing in his hallway. "Any seat you uhm, like."

"I tried to come, yeh know, when yer wife's out shoppin.' 'cuz that's what rich ladies do with their time."

"Actually, no, she's – Oh G-d." It was the very person in question, descending the steps. She must have heard the bell, and he quickly rushed between himself and Lilly, who didn't get up. "Caroline, it's not what it looks like."

Whether she'd had a proper look beforehand remained a mystery, but she certainly took one now, leaning around him to do so. "Daniel, what in G-d's name – "

"I'm not a 'what'!" Lilly shrieked.

"Caroline – "

"You are whatever I call you!" Caroline Maddox shouted back, then turned indignantly to her husband. "Who is this woman?"

"Her name is Miss Lilly – uhm – "

" – Garrison," said Lilly.

"Miss Garrison. She's – someone who knows former patients of mine. And current patients of mine."

"She's a whore!"

The doctor, horrified at his own indefensible position, turned to Lilly for help, to which she only replied with a shrug, "I ain't denyin' it."

"And she's pregnant!"

"No use denyin' that either," Lilly said. "But, I will say, the good doc 'ere's not the father, 'case you were worried."

"_Then what is she doing here_?"

"She – I don't know." He spun back to Lilly. "Miss Garrison, would you care to explain your presence?"

"'scuse me, Mrs. Maddox." She did not get up, but she made sort of a curtsey gesture with her head. "I thought you were out. See you've also got one in the oven. Good job, doc."

If there was one thing Maddox was sure of, it was that either his ears were going to burn off or he was going to die of a heart attack from the stress of trying to manage this. "Please – Lilly – Miss Garrison. Explain yourself. For my sake, at least."

"Dunno if I should say it in front of a proper lady," she said, "but I need yer help."

"I must inform you that I am not, in fact, a mid-wife, or any doctor of that sort," he insisted.

"Oh, I'll be fine. 'snot what this is about. See, I figure yeh owe me a favor, what account of you gettin' your big job with the Prince."

"I hardly see how that comes into account," he said. "As I think the favor was returned by me not reporting you as a serial stabber of your clients and my patients."

"Did give yeh some work, though. Prolly paid for her fine dress there." She gestured towards Caroline, which of course set Caroline off on another huff of indignation.

"That I cannot deny. Still, I believe we are even, and though I am loathe to turn away a patient, I must ask that you explain what favor it is that you wish me to grant, and do so very quickly, before my wife is further offended, which I will not tolerate."

Lilly, however, was not to be intimidated. Certainly not by a quivering doctor. "I need yeh to talk to yer boss fer me."

"The Prince? I doubt he is interested in talking to you, or seeing you ever again, except with head upon a – " And then, realization dawned. "It isn't."

"'tis."

"How do you even know?"

"I know!" she replied with some fury. "I keep track a these things, doc. I may be all cockney and knocked up but I ain't stupid."

No, she was not. A little crazy, and completely lacking in refinement, but not stupid. She had an ace in her deck and she intended to play it, and was doing so. Unfortunately, he was to be the carrier of such a terrible message. "Why don't you send him a letter?"

"Did. No response, 'course. And I ain't proposin' that he take the kid, 'cuz I know he won't. I just need some money, to tide me over, seeing as how I can't get work right now."

"I see," he said, because he did see, quite clearly, Lilly's situation. "So you wish me to risk my employment – and, frankly, my life for implying something treasonous to a royal – so you can have some money?"

"An' I know ye'll do it. 'cuz you're all proper like, but not in the way she's proper," she said, pointing to his wife, which was a very improper thing to do. "Yer proper right proper, because yer a decent man, all moral and carin' 'bout people. And if yeh don't do this ... I got nothin'. 'cept a royal kid I gotta feed."

Caroline meant to say something, but Maddox did something he had never done before, hand held up a hand for her to be silent. Maybe her confinement was making her out-of-sorts, but she actually stopped before she said anything and allowed him to speak in a calm voice to Lilly. "While I must first discuss this with my wife, as my very life is in danger if I do this, I will consider the matter and do ... what it is within my discretion to do." He swallowed. "May I inquire ...?"

"Two months, we think. Hard ta tell."

"Then we must settle the matter – if it can be settled – with all expediency. Is there somewhere I can contact you privately?"

"I ain't a very private lady," Lilly said, and apparently excusing herself, gave a sort of half-curtsey to Maddox and Caroline without naming them. "Good 'ay."

"Good day, Miss Garrison," he said, watching her leave. As he turned, his wife was giving him the most severe look she had ever given him. "What?"

...Next Chapter – Pilgrimage


	17. Pilgrimage

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

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Chapter 17 – Pilgrimage

As France disappeared into the mist, Darcy decided he was happy to see it gone. As beneficial as their long journey had been, it had come with its side of horrors – one brother he wanted and one he did not, but both ill-gotten. And the fact that they were visibly moving forward towards their initial goal put him at ease. He stood on the bow with Elizabeth, who was fascinated by the coloration of the Mediterranean, slightly different than the water channel. That they would have to move into deeper waters and not see the coastline as they passed was a shame. He wished Elizabeth to see Greece, one of the few places on his own trip he had truly enjoyed, with all of its ancient majesty, but it was not to be.

The calm lasted about an hour. Then they made an interesting discovery: monks were apparently not made for the ocean. Grégoire, not a man of great health in the first place, had no sea legs at all. Darcy was quite literally carrying him to the side of the boat to get him there in time before he lost his stomach. After the fifth time, he could no longer stand, and slumped against the side of the railing.

"Now, very much, I wish your brother was here," Darcy said to Brian Maddox. "You don't happen to have perused any of his literature -?"

"I know something about scurvy, but he doesn't have that. We've been on the boat for a quarter of a day."

They looked at each other.

"Maybe if we kept him below ..."

"Maybe if we let him walk, like he wanted to do," Darcy said, watching his brother mutter in Latin as he fingered his rosary. "He would arrive a few months late, but – Oh, there he goes again."

Darcy ran across the bow, which was not excessively long, and hoisted his brother up again so he could over the side. Brian Maddox remained in place, and bowed to Elizabeth approaching him. "Mrs. Darcy."

"Mr. Maddox." She curtseyed a little unsteadily, considering the rocking of the boat. "Whatever are we doing to that poor monk?"

"What is that poor monk doing to Mr. Darcy? He hasn't had a moment's piece for a few hours now," Brian remarked with a smile. "Brotherly affection is unconditional. At least, when one is not in competition with the other. Usually it requires a great age difference."

"You are a prime example of that, if I may say, Mr. Maddox," Elizabeth said.

"My very life hinges on my own stupidity and Danny's intelligence. I won't deny it," he said. "I'm very happy to hear that he's doing so well. At least now he can support Caroline on his own, which must be a great load off his mind. Me, I could hardly have the courage to bring myself to such a high class woman. No offense meant to a sister, of course."

"It is hard to deviate from the truth," she said. "Though I cannot say I have seen much of them since they were married, as I am so rarely in Town. But, to be honest, there was some ... surprise in the family when we discovered she was considering the courting of a man without a great inheritance."

"Or a title. And as long as he doesn't ruin it, he'll have knighthood eventually. But Danny is very good at being diplomatic to his patients."

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"So that's it?" Caroline said. "You would have your own head on a spike and me a widow because of some prostitute?"

"No! Of course not! I mean, if it comes to that -," but honestly, Daniel Maddox didn't know what it would come to. He didn't know what he would say to the Prince, that could possibly persuade him, or not get himself fired. "But – she's a woman in need. What am I supposed to do?"

"She's a whore, Daniel."

"That doesn't change her physical composition. Or the fact that she's carrying a royal child."

"So she says. Do you believe her?"

He scratched his head. "I don't know. Mostly. Look, I have a moral obligation – "

"You have no such obligation. She is exploiting you – "

"So she is! What is she to do? She's desperate! Do you think women become prostitutes because they like letting men use them? Do you think they don't get horrible diseases that they eventually die of, or get knocked up and then killed off when they go to the married man who impregnated them? Do you think most of them have any _choice_?"

"Don't sermonize to me!"

"I'm not sermonizing! I'm not making something up from a passage I read in the bible! I'm saying this because I've seen it and I have a chance to help this poor, mixed-up girl with a future child, and for some reason, I am very receptive to the pleas of pregnant women at the moment." He softened his tone, kneeling before his wife and taking her hands. "I am serious, Caroline. If you wish me to turn her away, I will. But I don't wish to. You will never have to see her again, but I want to go to the Prince and tell him what damage he has wrecked, though put it much more politely than that. But not without your consent." He touched her cheek. "I will do as you command."

Caroline seemed to be softening. Or, she seemed to be beginning to cry, either one. "I will not be a widow over this. It isn't fair."

"I would not make you a widow. Or, I try my best, despite my profession." He embraced her, which was getting to be a more difficult prospect at this point. "Say the word and it is forgotten."

"Will you forget it?"

He sighed. "No. But it will not be spoken of again."

"You're just like Darcy," she said. "Always the white knight. Why can't you just be stupidly naïve like Charles? Or passed out like Mr. Hurst when someone rings at the door?"

"Charles is not naïve. He just appears to be. In – some respects."

"I know that!" she shouted, pounding him limply on the chest. "I would ask you why you care about this woman so much, but I know you're only going to give me the most noble of answers and meant it and then I must consent or be a horrible woman for not doing so."

"You would never be a horrible woman."

"Despite rumors otherwise. There was a reason I was unmarried until I was thirty."

"Well, by the same logic, since I was unmarried until thirty-one, I must be one horrible woman as well. Though in my case, it makes sense."

This was enough to bring laughter out of Caroline, which stopped abruptly and she put her hand over her stomach.

"Are you all right?"

"The baby just kicked," she said, and Maddox pressed his hand against her sizable belly. "You can't tell it, of course."

"What, the gender? No. That must be a surprise saved for the end." He kissed her. "I love you."

"What good are you as a doctor if you can't even tell the gender of your own child?" she said, her mood noticeably altered from just a few moments before. "Just don't you dare make me a widow."

"Never."

"And try not to lose your commission as well."

"Then it is agreed?"

Caroline had no response but to hug him tighter. He took this as a positive.

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The Darcys rested a day at the small port town after a week that could have been quite pleasant if Grégoire's health hadn't become a serious risk. When they got him on shore, he was barely hydrated, but recovered quickly with food and drink and soil beneath him. Maddox, who knew Italian as well, hired for them a carriage and a horse for himself, and guided them some of the way, until they were nearly in view of the ancient city itself. "Here we must part ways for my own safety. If you need me, send for me at an inn named Bella Notte to the east. I would like to point out that I am considered an excellent courier – must be all those years of running away from people that put me into such shape."

And with that, he took his horse in another direction, going north.

To Grégoire's great delight, he did get to make his proper walk to Rome, if not all the way. The path they had taken was so bumpy that the carriage had to proceed at a slow enough pace and he was enough recovered to walk the last remaining miles as the Holy City came up in the distance, beyond the hills of Italy. At the site of it, he dropped to his knees and bowed.

"His ardor may be decreased when he sees in front of him the reason we travel here," Darcy said.

"You are just grumpy because you know you'll never talk him out of monasticism."

He decided he was willing to give her that. "Perhaps."

And so the Darcys went down the hill and into Rome in the early summer of 1808.

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Rome was unlike any other city. It had been built on mystic origins instead of the trading port that was London, had seated the Roman Republic and then the Roman Empire for a thousand years, and had become the seat of the church that ruled all of Christendom before Martin Luther and John Calvin, and England's own John Knox. It was full of hills overlooking the Tiber, and abandoned ruins and ones reused to build newer houses, so that even in all his studies on Roman history, Darcy could not point out precisely the origins of every place they found on the road. Nothing looked new, but not precisely old, and they saw as many barons and wealthy merchants as tonsured priests and nuns. When the carriage became rather useless, they emerged into the streets themselves, which were hot and buggy, but not unbearable, and Darcy could not seem to ignore his brother's pleas to see St. Peter's. Darcy would have excused himself from this business, but Elizabeth expressed a more pedestrian interest in the seat of Papery, and he wished to see it with her if she was to go.

Hands together – something clearly appropriate here, and a luxury they enjoyed – the Darcys watched Grégoire ascend and kiss each step leading to the courtyard of St. Peter, with its marble statues of the church fathers and Roman architectural façade.

"You've given him a great gift, bringing him here," Elizabeth whispered to Darcy.

"Or a favor. In which case, he would be perhaps kind enough to repay me by visiting Pemberley before returning to Mon-Claire."

"Scheming, as usual."

"For everyone's good, of course," he said.

There were no words, at first, to fully describe the cathedral they entered. It was massive, and between masses, it was still rather crowded with visitors, even with the Pope not on his throne. And what a throne it was! With four golden pillars surrounding it, all of the literature the Darcys had read on the wealth of the Papacy were clearly not unfounded. Grégoire bowed to the floor, and was received by an attending bishop, and it was some amount of groveling and blessing before Darcy could approach his brother. "We must find suitable lodgings for tonight, eventually, and your skills are needed in this. After the task is done, you can return, but I would ask this small favor of you."

"Of course. In fact, let us go now, so that I can return for Matins. He bowed to the priest and they hurried out the cathedral.

Between Darcy's natural abilities to assess where the wealthy situated themselves and Grégoire's translation, they were able to rent a cramped but suitable apartment that would do for the moment, and Darcy kept his brother long enough only that he should eat something and translate Darcy's letter of inquiry as to the location of Mr. Mastai-Ferretti, if he was still in the city at all. With that sent, they separated, as Grégoire rushed to Matins, his exuberance carrying him all the way there. It must have, because the Darcys themselves found themselves hot and exhausted, and were happy to retire. The building was centuries old, and a bit drafty, and that was its saving grace. "Better accommodations will be found," Darcy assured her, though it was mainly him that needed assuring. "When our business is done here, perhaps we will retire to one of those famous villas while we wait for an answer."

"And do you have a plan for asking the question?"

"Oh, yes," he said.

"Does it involve you just walking in, speaking your mind, and maybe throttling a boy younger than your brother until he agrees to a settlement?"

He smiled. "Perhaps it was not the most cunning of plans."

"Mary is my sister, and I have some questions for Mr. Ferretti myself, if you don't mind. In fact, it may aid us, for if Miss Talbot is correct, there is the possibility that he has some affection for her, or even loves her. Misplaced in his actions, but still."

"A powerful bargaining chip."

"It is not all about bargaining chips. Emotions are involved, Darcy. You remember, emotions? Ones you feel about people you haven't even met or don't even like but are afraid to express?"

"I am not _afraid_."

"Then you are just exceedingly shy."

"I am not shy."

"And now you are just been stubborn."

"Have you ever known me to be anything else?"

Elizabeth could not reply that she could not.

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They set out after Grégoire returned from morning Mass. It was hot but not unbearable, and even with her brimmed hat, Darcy bought a parasol for his wife and a wooden cross necklace for his brother, to which, surprisingly, the monk did not object. The seller said that it had been blessed by His Holiness, and as much as Darcy doubted it, he said nothing.

Rome was the Holy City, but it was still a modern city as well, if a bit confused in its orientation, having never been planned out properly to be the size that it was, and they soon found the residential streets quite winding and disorienting. Grégoire was invaluable, even when he was horrified as Darcy was willing to put ducats in the hand of any man who seemed, through translation, to be reluctant to give directions. They were misled and probably lied to, but eventually they found someone, a woman hanging up her clothing who said she had once rented an apartment to a young Ferretti, but now the family had a bigger one down a ways, and she knew little else. Perhaps the fact that this British couple was traveling with a young monk of only the most nobly humble appearances endeared her to them enough to tell them that without outright bribery.

"_Grazie_," Darcy said, which was basically the extent of his Italian. "I did pronounce that right?"

"Yes," Grégoire said, in his own bizarrely accented English. "Down here, she said. All the way to the end."

Fortunately it was downhill. Downwards they descended, until at last they reached an old apartment house with a new false Roman façade in front of it. Darcy rapped harshly on the door with his walking stick, making no pretense of ringing the bell.

A dark woman opened the door, obviously some kind of maid, and Grégoire bowed to her, keeping his eyes low. "_Scusilo. È questa il Ferretti residenza_?" (_Excuse me. Is this the Ferretti Residence?)_

"_Sì_." She gave an obvious look of suspicion at the well dressed foreigners behind the monk.

"We are looking for Giovanni Ferretti," Darcy broke in, figuring the name was enough. It seemed to be. Despite his English, her head snapped up at the name. "Tell her it's urgent."

"_Scusili. È un aspetto urgente_." _(Excuse us. It is an urgent matter)_

"_Il padrone non è domestico_."

"She said the master isn't at home," Grégoire translated.

"Give her this and ask if he will see us," Elizabeth said, pulling from her pocket a rosary with red beads. "Please."

Grégoire took the beads from her and held them up to the maid. She nearly grabbed them from his hand. "_Scusilo."_ And then she slammed the door shut.

"Very clever," Darcy said to his wife. "I knew I brought you along for a reason."

"Brought me along? She's _my_ sister!"

He was unwilling to put up an argument, however pleasing, in the heat. Since the maid did not instantaneously reappear, they seated themselves in the little garden across the street, where a fallen imperial column made for an excellent bench and a gnarled free created some shade. Aside from the buzzing of insects, the area was remarkably quiet, away from the bustle of the town's center. Or perhaps the Romans had the sensibility to retire in the midday heat. Unfortunately for Darcy, he insisted on all of his usual attire, though his cravat was not as complex when he tied it himself. Elizabeth had chastised him, but to no avail. Mr. Darcy was a proper English gentleman and would only be seen as one, especially on a mission of such monumental gentlemanly importance. That did not, however, mean he wasn't running his wool clothing with sweat. "Dear, you're going to be ill."

"I suppose it's my turn," he said. "You've both had a go at it."

At last, the door opened, and the maid gestured for them to enter. They were ushered into a cramped but beautiful two-story apartment. It was full of artifacts, practically crammed with them like an unsorted collection. Every wall was lined with books. Where there weren't proper bookcases, there were piles of them stacked properly and neatly against the wall. The maid, still the only person they had seen or saw about, gestured for them to be seated on a couch in what was apparently a sitting room, if a sitting room more resembling a library, but then again, so did the hallways. On their left was an entrance to the balcony overlooking the hills of Rome, and it provided some breeze. They were not given refreshments. In fact, they were left quite alone, and somewhat wondering after a time if they were ever to be introduced to anybody, much less the right person, when their long pilgrimage was brought to an abrupt end. A man – no, a boy, who couldn't have been more than sixteen – entered, his arms folded behind his back, looking terrified. Around his neck was his rosary, the one Elizabeth had handed over. He was dressed simply, in some kind of seminary uniform, but without the priestly collar.

"Excuse my delay. I believe you are seeking me." He bowed, and they did the same. His English was fluent, but highly accented with the traditional Italian leanings. "I am Giovanni Ferretti."

...Next Chapter – The Would-Be Priest


	18. The Would Be Priest

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

**Author's Note** - You know what? I don't like cliffhangers any more than you do. Here you go, guys.

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Chapter 18 – The Would-Be Priest

"If you will excuse the question," Giovanni said, "I was not told who you were, though I can only imagine why you are here."

"I am Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy," Elizabeth broke in. "And this is my husband, Mr. Darcy. My maiden name is Bennet."

"Ah," he said. "Mary's sister."

"So you know why we sought you," Mr. Darcy said in a much deeper and more obviously threatening tone. "Or have some imagination on that subject. And this is Brother Grégoire, who is Mary's brother-in-law."

Grégoire bowed again.

"Then please allow me to get you some refreshments – "

But he would not have his escape. Darcy grabbed him by his collar as he tried to make his very un-dashing exit. "While I would very much enjoy refreshments, we have not come this far to idly chat over tea, Mr. Ferretti. Or is it, Father Ferretti now?"

"Darcy!" Elizabeth said, and would not give up her cold stare until Darcy released the boy, who gasped free. "We will be civil. Though, if you would, please, answer the question, sir."

"It is Mr. Ferretti. I have not been ordained, though it is only a matter of time." But surprisingly, there was confidence in his voice. Not only was he terrified, he had that humble sort of tone. "I was simply told Englishmen like to be very ... what is word, quiet and proper? Beat around the bush?"

"We are not in England," Darcy replied. "And so we must be Italians and get right to the point, I suppose. You know the only proper course of action in this situation, however delayed it would now be."

Giovanni swallowed. Elizabeth almost pitied him. "I – I am aware of your country's standards, but you must also be equally aware that I cannot. I have been promised to the church since the day I was born – "

"And that would make you quite the model of celibacy, wouldn't it?" Darcy said. "That would be expected of you."

"My family expects many things of me. Every time I have tried to disobey them, it has ended in failure. Please, Signore, try to understand my position – "

Darcy was unrelenting. "Your position is apparently quite comfortable."

"You are surely aware," Elizabeth said, a little gentler than Darcy, "that my sister's position is untenable, and that while I know not your local customs, her reputation is thoroughly ruined, and she may well bring down my younger sister Catherine as well."

"'The fallen woman.' Yes, I have been told."

"Apparently not enough to impact your course of action except to have you running in the opposite direction," Darcy said.

"What was I to do? I – I cannot be an Englishmen! My family would cut me off! And though I loved Mary, I could not betray all of them – " he caught their expressions. "Yes, I did love her. And still do. It is not a lie and I will not deny it for a moment. That I should have restrained my baser instincts, yes, you are in the right. That I should have insisted that she accept my offer of compensation – "

"Compensation!" Elizabeth said, finally raising her voice. "My sister is not a whore, to be paid!"

"It was the only thing I could think of. Forgive me, but do you not – I am not fully comprehending – do you not occasionally marry for the exchange of monies in England? Something about dowries? The exchange of money to signify a spiritual connection?"

"Your church would certainly know all about that," Darcy said. "No offense meant, brother."

"None taken," Grégoire said, wisely deciding to stay out of the conversation entirely.

"But I am not false? This is true, that she must be provided for? That the child must be provided for?" Giovanni insisted. "And it is my child, so I must do it. But she refused. She was so pious. A martyr. Like Saint Mary."

"The virgin or the whore?" Darcy said. "I would be very interested to know which biblical Mary you were considering to apply to ours."

Giovanni bit his lip. He was caught. He paced the room like a caged animal, only harmless instead of being ferocious, the way Darcy usually was when he paced. "I do not – what do you want me to say? Within reason, Signore, please."

Elizabeth touched Darcy on the arm and whispered. "Let me have a moment with him."

"With his reputation?"

"On the balcony. I insist."

He sighed and allowed his wife to step out onto the plaster balcony, and pointed for Giovanni to follow. They stepped out of earshot, facing out and leaning on the railing, but in perfect view of the ever-watchful Darcy.

"Some things in this life need a woman's touch," Darcy said to his brother. "Perhaps some day you will discover that."

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"My apologies – "

"It is too hot and I am too tired, Mr. Ferretti," Elizabeth said. "Do you love my sister?"

"Yes. Very much so."

"But marriage is out of the question."

"_Sì_. As much as – as I would want it to be. I tried to escape the church, you know."

"I heard. Something about the Noble Guard?"

"_Sì_. But because of my fits – they would not take me."

Elizabeth paused. "Do you find the church so terrible?"

"I did at the time. I was struggling with my studies, and then I met Mary, and she made – it all come alive. I could understand things when she said them. Still, I did not feel very pious."

"Obviously," she could not help but remark.

"But – I did love her. Or, came to love her. It came over me like, how do you call, a lightening bolt. And I could not control myself. Things are different here, Signora Darcy. In Italia, it would not have been so terrible."

"But, though we are in Italy, Mary is not. And cannot be expected to abandon her own family for you, especially since you will shortly be supposedly celibate."

"So you do see, how terrible it is. But I am to do what?" He shook his head. "Every woman I had ever met was jeweled and dolled up to be perfect. Mary was perfect as she was, without adornments. Humble, pious, thinking little of herself, intelligent, studious ... the very ideal of the church. The Virgin Mary." He put his head down. "A terrible comparison, I know, Signora. But I cannot help it. And I ruined her. Tell me at least, she is not cast out."

"No." Her voice was wavering, and she was having trouble hiding it. "Papa was upset, yes, but she is family, and we love her. But her position in society – that is very terrible, beyond repair. And there is little hope for the Bennet name when this becomes known, if it has not happened already."

He sighed again. He was obviously in anguish, maybe in tears. It was hard to tell when he looked away, which was good for her as well, because she could hide her own. "If I go inside and offer your husband to deliver everything in my power to give, beyond my person as a husband, he will not kill me? Because he does – appear that way."

"No, he will most assuredly not. He is just very intimidating."

He bowed. "Thank you, Signora Darcy."

"Do right by my sister and I will be one doing the thanking, Mr. Ferretti."

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Inside, it was quickly agreed, now that Elizabeth was there to make Darcy comply. Not that she expected otherwise, but he took one look at her reddened eyes and softened.

"Tomorrow," Giovanni said. "I can have a proposal for you tomorrow."

"And I have your word of honor as – whatever you are, a clergyman, an Italian, a Roman – that you will not flee again?"

"No, _Signor_."

So, it was agreed. It was too awkward to attempt further conversation, and so, they took their leave.

"He loves her," Elizabeth said, both sad and relieved at the same time. "But they are too far apart in too many ways."

"We will see, tomorrow, how much he loves her."

Their next meeting was very formal and arranged. They sat at the dining table in Giovanni's apartment, with an older man who spoke little and was obviously a banker. The Darcys sat across from them, and a paper was passed. Darcy glanced at the number, kept his look of concern and impatience, and passed it back without a word.

"Oh, and for the child." Giovanni passed another paper, and Darcy took a look at it, and passed it back again.

Without hesitation, he replied in an even voice, betraying neither disgust or delight at whatever he had seen, "Mr. Bennet will, by law, receive any monies you wish to grant Miss Bennet, which he may do as he pleases, though I have no doubt that he will give Mary access to it in the fullest possible way. The trust fund for the child you may have set up so that he cannot touch it, but as I must deliver the check and set up the account, I will probably do so only with Mr. Bennet's approval, as I am only his son-in-law and here by proxy."

"I put my full faith in you, _Signor_."

"I will write to him by special courier and we will wait to see if the terms are agreeable to him. If they are, I will take the checks immediately and return to England."

"Of course." Giovanni swallowed. "I ask only – a small favor. That you deliver a letter I have written to Mary." He removed it from his robes and passed the envelope over. It was sealed, and Elizabeth took it. "Thank you. She should know I only wish her the best, but there shall be no further correspondence, for both of our sakes."

"So it must be."

They bowed and left. Darcy was too eager to leave and Elizabeth to eager to know what figures he had seen. As they stepped outside and turned the corner, Darcy going first with his wife and brother practically chasing after him, he turned to them, and was smiling.

"It went well?"

"Better than my own expectations. Though I did not get my chance to properly throttle him, but I suppose I'll have to let it pass."

"That terribly much?"

"If your father accepts – and Mr. Bennet will have to have lost all reason not to do so immediately – then your sister will be one of the wealthiest women in England." He whispered the sum, and Elizabeth gaped. "But first, most pressing, I must find that damned Maddox. I am in need of a speedy courier who thinks he owes me his life."

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"So, you're not going to tell me the sum?"

"Absolutely not."

"What kind of man do you take me for?"

Darcy's blunt stare was enough to get the point across. Brian Maddox took another long swig from his mug. "You're thinking I might run off with Miss Bennet to get the money. Well, I'll let you know I have only the highest respect for the institution of marriage. Hence why a person of my low moral character never entered into it. Left two girls at the altar, too. Not at the same time, of course. Though the Turks do have some strange customs."

"I don't think I even want the explanation," Darcy said, "and will willingly rob my wife of it. Now, the letter." It sat, composed and sealed by Darcy, on the inn table before them. "How fast?"

"If I'm lucky, two weeks there, however long it takes him to decide, and then two weeks back. Could be a month."

"A month!" Elizabeth said. "It took us two to get here!"

"And you're not a professional courier who is very good at riding and even running with a limp," Brian Maddox replied. "But – there is the business of me going to England. A risky venture."

"Outstanding debts, of course." Darcy did not even pretend to be surprised.

"Some have defaulted, since I haven't been spotted on British shores for over five years. But some guys don't listen to rules very much, if you know what I mean. And I would very much like to see my brother and the lovely Mrs. Maddox, if only in passing, but there in Town. Where some – well, a _majority _– of my enemies are. But considering I'm otherwise offering to pay my own expenses for travel and do this actual job as a service to a family member, however distant, I'd say, you'll be getting off easy by only insuring my safety while in England."

"Or I could use a proper courier," Darcy pointed out.

"Who'll pass France's embargo in that little time? He'd need a bribe for that, probably as much or more than I'm asking. Which is two hundred pounds, by the way."

Darcy replied, "All things considered, I do find that reasonable. But if you don't return within two months – "

" – then I'm dead on a roadside and you should have hired someone proper after all. Not that a proper courier would go to England and upset Napoleon. But no, believe it or not, I don't gamble. Not while I'm on duty, anyway. Or my brother's involved."

"I have to admit, you and the doctor could not be further opposites."

"Hey, look who's talking here."

Darcy gave a glance to Grégoire, and then back at Brian. "And not a word of this."

"Of course. None of my business. Well, about as much my business as the matter of Miss Bennet, but that's none of my business anyway. I'm just delivering a letter." He smiled at them. "By the way, I have an address for you, of a villa just outside Rome. You might find it more comfortable than the city itself, if you've had enough of the bugs and the heat and those awful smells."

"I might have," Darcy said, and they shook on it, and Brian was gone, taking the letter with him in his rucksack.

"A pleasant man," said Grégoire innocently.

"Certainly an enigma," said Elizabeth. Darcy had no comment.

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If there was one thing Brian Maddox was right about, it was Rome. It was a most unpleasant place on the summer, if one had no particular religious interest beyond sightseeing. The Darcys took their leave and did rent the villa at an extremely reasonable price. It was on a hill, and on a clear day, one could even see the ocean, and feel a cool breeze. It was also not far from Rome, enough that Grégoire could walk there as often as he pleased, which was very often, and they saw little of him, except when they joined him, and Elizabeth saw the Sistine Chapel and The Last Supper in all their glory, though she was surprised to find the latter was merely a painting over an ordinary square doorway. When Grégoire had explored it enough and spoken to enough people, he even got them entrance to the Vatican Observatory, where they saw the exact place where priest-scientists had created the Gregorian calendar they used to the very day. He also took them on an abbreviated tour of the catacombs, until Darcy declared that he had seen enough bones of saints to last him a lifetime, mainly because Elizabeth was looking pale at the grim site.

There was certainly things to occupy their time. Now at ease while awaiting Mr. Bennet's response, they toured in the days when it was not too hot and relaxed otherwise after a long trip. They were secretly glad when Grégoire spent some of his time elsewhere, probably holed up in some confessional booth, because there were some things that demanded privacy. Even though the road had not totally separated the Darcys – the very opposite, in fact, as they were often thrown together on a bed two small for both of them – but they were never fully at leisure, and some things were better enjoyed when fully at leisure, and with an excellent bottle of French wine, and a book that until this point in their journey had been carried but had gone unused. It was not to say they were free from concerns, as they both admitted to a growing impatience to see their son and their family, who they had not heard from since Paris. The post was intolerably slow, and they could not expect to hear from them at all until Mr. Maddox returned, so they contented themselves to make up stories about all of the possible Geoffrey had gotten himself into, which brought laughter that would temporarily ease the pain of separation. But other than that, and other things they couldn't change, their life was ideal. They often sat or stood on the balcony and watched the sun fade in the west.

Two weeks since they had sent Maddox, Grégoire said it was some saint's day and he intended to spend the night in a vigil, or something stupidly Papist of that nature, and they knew they were going to be alone. Maybe he realized the gift he was granting them and maybe he didn't, but neither inquired. Instead, Darcy merely uncorked a new wine to celebrate the date, and put his arms around his wife from behind. She was watching the sunset, now turning the sky a brilliant shade of orange.

"Darcy," Elizabeth said, her voice amused but still carrying a certain gravity. "I'm late."

...Next Chapter – Brian Maddox Rides Again


	19. Brian Maddox Rides Again

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Note - For those of you who like to know where you are in the story, this story has about 29 chapters, so there clearly must be some other thing to be resolved.

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Chapter 19 – Brian Maddox Rides Again

"Shave it."

"What? I could never – "

"It is my recommendation, Your Highness."

But His Highness did not look pleased at the process. "So it is lice, then."

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"Wash it first with whiskey or vodka, scrubbing thoroughly, then with soap and water. That should do the trick."

Doctor Maddox's patient groaned. "You can tell? From that far?"

"I'm not coming any closer, Your Majesty. With all due respect."

"Christ. I'll look so odd."

"I do not believe anyone will notice it. Except perhaps your wife."

"Are you kidding me? I haven't even seen Caroline in years, much less slept with her." He caught the look on Maddox's face before he could recover. "Oh, that's right. Your wife is also named Caroline. Well, I promise not to sleep with her, either."

"...T-Thank you, Your Highness." Maddox quickly returned to his tools, and began slowly replacing them, as they would obviously not be needed. A lower servant than him would do this dirty work if the Prince didn't do it himself. Either way, the imagery made him shudder. "But – uhm, while we are on the topic of names, I was wondering if you would remember a mutual friend of ours, Miss Lilly Garrison?" He swallowed and latched his bag, knowing he would have to face the Regent for this.

"Harrison ... I know a few – _Oh_. You mean, Lilly. I never got her last name."

"Neither did I, admittedly, until she showed up at my house."

"She did? The nerve of that ... that whore! I mean, even for a whore, that's pretty preposterous, showing up at a client's house – "

"I was never a client," he corrected. "I was merely the doctor on call. And even if I had that inclination, I would never subject my body to such unsanitary conditions. I might get lice."

"Well put. But then why is she bothering you?" The Regent slapped himself in his bushy head. It would have been an amusing image if Maddox was not terrified by the conversation and was busy with that emotion instead. "Of course. Did she hit you up for money?"

"No."

"Then she wants it from me. I haven't responded to her letters, or the letters someone wrote for her, so she went out of her way – I will not have my own physician so unjustly treated. Tell me at least your wife wasn't at home!"

"It is not important," he said. He needed some of that whiskey he had mentioned now, to steel himself. Shame it wasn't around. "The point is, I feel obligated to mention that she is heavy with child."

"Feel obligated? What do you owe her?"

"Nothing. But she is a woman in need, despite her profession."

"Ah, I see." The Regent, despite being on the path to moral and physical self-destruction, was a rather clever man. "And she went to you because you are so noble and also had access to me, knowing perhaps you would even put your own life at risk, speaking treason to the Prince Regent by making implications against the State, since I am the State, that my marriage to Caroline of Brunswick is not sacrosanct. Which would make you a great fool, putting your head on the chopping block for some whore."

Maddox mumbled, "Yes, I am quite a fool in this respect."

"Then ...," The Regent sighed. "What do you want?"

"It is not what I want. It is what Miss Garrison – Lilly – wants."

"Compensation. Of course. Well, let me tell you something, because I know you are a discreet man. If I gave compensation to every whore or lady carrying a royal bastard, the State coffers would be empty."

"Then just this one, perhaps."

The Regent laughed. "You insist upon it? Have you forgotten your place, doctor?"

"You will refuse, and we will never speak of this again, and you will either fire me or have me killed. But yes, I will insist upon it, because there is one thing I have not forgotten, and it is that a gentleman is always in the service of a lady."

"That woman is no lady. Do you remember at all that she stabbed me? Even when I continued to see her after she was obviously pregnant?"

"I am aware. But that does not change her biological composition. She is, and shall die, a lady."

The Regent laughed. The folly of youth, perhaps, but they were basically the same age. In many ways, Prince George reminded him of his brother, and not always in the good way, but he passed no judgments. Not knowing what to say, he pursed his hands behind his back to hide the fact that his stable surgeon's hands were shaking.

"You are very ... I don't know, knightly. Like those old legends about going through a terrible battle for a woman's honor. Even if the woman doesn't deserve it." He chuckled. "Fine, I will send her something, but we shall never speak of this again, and if Lilly ever approaches you again, tell her she is doing so against orders of the State, and that if she bothers you longer, there will be no 'Miss Garrison.' Am I understood?"

"Perfectly," said the doctor, not quite believing what he was hearing. He bowed, deeper than he usually did. "Thank you, Your Most Gracious Highness."

"Your ridiculous sense of honor is going to get you in trouble one of these days, doctor," he said, slapping him on the arm. "But not today. You are quite a lucky man in that respect."

Indeed, he was. He had the whole way back to fathom the length to which the Prince's mercy extended. Maybe Caroline was right, and he just liked him – the proper formality of a skilled physician mixed with actual concern, but never an improper comment, until today. And he had survived, career and spinal column intact.

He arrived home just in time for supper, and was to deliver the news to Caroline immediately when he was stopped by a maid, who handed him a note. "We found this in the box, after the post had already been delivered."

He tore open the seal of Maddox and read it.

_Dear Brother,_

_I have some excessively hasty business carrying a letter to Mr. Bennet in the North. If you wish to catch me, you'd better head to Derbyshire immediately. Sorry for the rush. B. Maddox_

"Daniel? What's the matter?"

"Brian," he said. "He was – apparently in Town today, long enough to drop off this." He passed it to his wife, who read it quickly. "I told you he was a courier these days. Apparently the Darcys have employed him."

"Then you must go, at once!"

"But I could not – "

"Don't be ridiculous. I have nearly two months. Now go to Kirkland and see that beloved brother of yours. And try not to let him talk you into giving him too _much_ money."

He kissed her on the cheek. "Agreed." He grabbed his sack again, and instructed his footman to have a horse saddled and ready. "Oh, and the Prince said yes."

"Yes?"

"To Miss Garrison's request. Though we are never to speak of it again, and she is never to speak to me again. Those were his conditions, which I found very agreeable."

"Oh, Daniel!" she hugged him as best she could at her stage. "Congratulations."

"You were – rooting for me?"

"I am your wife. I will root for success in all of your endeavors, no matter how stupidly noble. Now go, and see that rogue of a brother of yours."

"I'll tell him you said that."

"You wouldn't dare."

About that, she was definitely right.

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The company of Kirkland was sitting down to dinner when the bell for the front door rang. As they had not heard from the Darcys since they left France, Bingley ran past his servants and answered the door himself. He was not expecting, however, a thoroughly soaked and muddied Brian Maddox. "...Hello?"

"Mr. Bingley," Brian bowed to his brother-in-law. "Sorry for the intrusion, but I have a letter for Mr. Bennet." He wiped his hands on his jacket, reached into his rucksack, and retrieved a formal, sealed envelope. "Express from Italy."

"Mr. Maddox, please do come in at once." For it was pouring, and the man was obviously exhausted. "We'll see to your horse. Do you mind if I give it to Mr. Bennet myself so you can rest a bit before joining us for dinner?"

"Would be lovely, Mr. Bingley," said Brian, and handed over the letter as the servants rushed to help him out of his overcoat and escort him somewhere were he could be properly changed and cleaned.

But Bingley wasn't concerned with that. He instead rushed back to the dining hall. "Mr. Bennet." He handed him the letter, with Darcy's seal on it.

Mr. Bennet excused himself to Mr. Bingley's study, shutting the door behind him. Dinner halted entirely as the whole of the adult residents and guests of Kirkland stood outside the door, including a very pregnant and confided Mary Bennet, listening to the silence within. Even though only a few minutes, it was an unbearably long time before he reappeared, a grave look on his face. "Mary."

She joined him inside, and the door was shut again. Jane hugged her husband, who whispered encouraging things in her ear.

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"Now, enough of that," Mr. Bennet said as he made his daughter sit in the chair beside him. His mood was entirely different when the door was closed. He was almost – content. "The letter is, obviously, from Mr. Darcy. I will read it to you, and then you may see it for yourself if you wish, as you are, of course, his chief concern."

_Dear Mr. Bennet,_

_First, I must report that Elizabeth and I are well and safely in Rome. We are eager to hear that everything is well in England, when Mr. Maddox returns with your reply._

_To the matter at hand, we have located Mr. Ferretti, who is currently residing in Rome. He has continued his insistence that he cannot move to England to marry Miss Bennet without abandoning his own family, to which he has heavy obligations, and she cannot be asked to abandon hers. Lacking other option, he has offered a settlement of a number of ducats which a banker has calculated to be in the area of 150,000 pounds, to go to you for the express purpose of providing for Miss Bennet. He has also asked that upon my return to England, I supervise the arrangement of a trust fund starting at 40,000 pounds, which will be come accessible to the child at his age of majority, or if it is a girl, will be her inheritance upon marriage or reaching the age of five and thirty, in accordance with British law. Mr. Ferretti would do so only on the insistence that you see that the money does in fact go to Miss Bennet's welfare, and I assured him that it would. _

_If you find these arrangements suitable, please reply with haste and send our courier back, as we are both eager to return to England and cannot do so without a reply. If you want to raise argument or refusal, it is your choice to do so, but as a son-in-law, I highly advise against it. _

_Please give our love to Geoffrey and thank Mr. and Mrs. Bingley for caring for him in our absence, which hopefully is nearing its end._

"Signed, Mr. Darcy," he finished, closing the letter and handing it to a shocked Mary, who was holding a protective hand over her sizable stomach. "Well ..." and he trailed off, because he could not contain his joyous laughter, which started as chuckle and became louder as he embraced her. "It seems we are saved by Mr. Darcy once again."

"So you will accept?"

"As he said, I would be a fool not to. And while I do consider myself at times foolish, in this case, I can see the obvious quite well enough."

"And it is not a terrible thing to accept money for a sin?"

"The sin has already been done, and I think any man will overlook it, even with a toddler at your feet, when you are richer than Mr. Bingley. And with no entails, no obligations because you are under Longbourn's roof, no one to support ... I cannot even fathom it. Though, as the custodian and official owner of this great wealth, you will perhaps allow me one discretion."

"Anything, Papa."

"I would like to take aside ten thousand or so for Kitty and set it as her inheritance. And perhaps, repair that fallen piece of the roof in the barn at Longbourn for a few pounds." He kissed her on the cheek. "Despite everything, I must say, you've done well for yourself, Mary. Now, we must not keep them waiting or I'll never hear the end of it from your mother."

She laughed. His daughter laughed, and it could only make Mr. Bennet happier, as they emerged into the waiting crowd. "An arrangement has been made for Mary and the child, and I will agree to it, in letter, when Mr. Maddox is fit to travel again."

"Thank G-d! Oh, thank G-d! Mary!" Mrs. Bennet did not hide her enthusiasm. "We are all saved!"

"If I may inquire – " said Bingley.

" – if I tell you the amount, you may divorce my lovely Jane to marry my lovely Mary, no matter how noble you are," Mr. Bennet replied, back to his usual humor, something they had not seen in three terrible months.

"Never," Bingley smiled, knowing he would hear the real amount soon enough, and hugged his wife.

Their previous dinner, while not particularly gloomy, was returned to, this time in celebration. Mr. Maddox, now dressed in borrowed clothing and still looking exhausted by at least clean, shuffled in with his odd step and joined them.

"The letter was not dated," Mr. Bennet said. "How long did it take you to get here?"

"Two weeks and two days," Brian said. "And many, many different horses."

"Then we shan't keep you up," Bingley said. "You may retire whenever you are full, Mr. Maddox. We are very much in your debt."

"I can't even think of debts. All I can think of is ... the back heads of horses," he said, and dove into his food.

He did retire, though, immediately following the meal. The ladies took to their own place, and there was must squealing and discussion, probably because Mary told Mrs. Bennet the amount. Bingley heard it to, privately, from Mr. Bennet in his study after a glass of port. In front of him was a writing desk, where Mr. Bennet intended to begin crafting his reply.

"My G-d," Bingley said. It was more than his entire inheritance. _(1)_

"Yes, despite the circumstances, my daughter has done better for herself in a certain way than any of the others. I imagine there'll be knights and lords lining up to marry her now, after we decide how to make it known."

"Or the Regent himself."

"He is married, I believe."

"I think they are estranged."

"Doctor Maddox told you that?"

Bingley shrugged. "Doctor Maddox is fastidious in his confidentiality about his patients. I had merely heard it in Town." He took a sip. "You may realize that, if Mary does not marry soon, or at all if she so chooses, and she delivers a boy, he will have the name Bennet, and the estate will pass to him."

"I was so – overwhelmed, I hadn't even thought of it," Mr. Bennet admitted. "You're right. Goodness, five daughters and I still might have a sort of son. Not that I don't treasure my sons-in-law, mind you."

Bingley happily raised his glass to that.

"That is, of course, dependent on the gender. But my granddaughter will certainly have enough of an inheritance that any man would overlook her history. Or may not even know it. He may have 'died in a war' or something by then." He leaned on his hand, his thinking posture. "It may be best to cover up some of this, as indecorous as that might be, for Kitty's sake."

"Mary was married abroad and her husband died on one of Napoleon's ridiculous campaigns," Bingley suggested. "Meanwhile, your long investment in a company in Australia finally paid off in great sum, leaving a greater dowry for Kitty. Or something to that effect."

"Precisely, Mr. Bingley." They clinked glasses. "I am indebted to you, of course, almost as much as Mr. Darcy, for putting up with us all of these months, and for the next two."

"It has had its pleasures. And with her sister in Confinement, Jane would of course be with her anyway, so it is most convenient for me."

"Except that _your_ sister is confined in Town."

"True. They have a target assumption of a date, so I may take leave of Kirkland for that week. But Jane is fine now, thank G-d, and now with this weight off our shoulders ... Well, when the Darcys return, I will feel even better."

"Yes," Mr. Bennet said. "They have been gone so very long. That at least can finally end, depending on how speedily they decide to return."

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A doctor was able to confirm it.

"If Mr. Maddox does not return shortly," Darcy said, "I may get to strangle someone after all, because it will be him."

Elizabeth could only laugh. She did not feel his concerns, so barely did she feel with child, and because she was so happy to be so. He was happy as well, but consumed with the very pressing matter of how to return to England quickly enough and yet safely enough for her health. Riding was out.

"I will not have a French baby," he said.

"But darling, I thought you _were_ French. Mr. _deh'Aaarcy,_" she giggled, trying her best to imitate Grégoire's accent.

"I'm as French as Bingley is Irish," he said. "Which, by his accounts, is not at all."

Grégoire was unexpectedly overjoyed at the news. Not that he should not be happy for his sister-in-law, but Darcy did not know until that moment that Elizabeth had told the monk about her miscarriage. Or maybe he liked the idea of being an uncle. He did not, however, have any ideas of the best way to return to England, being un-traveled himself until the day he met them.

"There is the other matter," Darcy said out on the veranda, in the cool breeze of late afternoon, when Elizabeth was absorbed in some English book she had found in a shop in Rome. "Of you returning to England."

"I cannot abandon my order, Darcy."

"I know you will not abandon your vocation, but perhaps Mon-Claire could do without you ... for a while. You had not taken your final vows."

"This is true."

"And ... I have been considering ... there must be monasteries in Ireland. Different from your own experiences, but the same basic ridiculous principles of celibacy and obsessive amounts of prayer."

Grégoire, well-used to Darcy's taunts at this point, was unaffected by them. "It still would not be England."

"No, but it would be closer. And I would wish you closer ... and safer ... than Mon-Claire."

"Mon-Claire survived the Revolution. It is safe."

"_You know what I mean_."

Grégoire frowned. "I cannot abandon them."

"Then write them a letter, that you are taking a leave of absence to visit your father's grave. There cannot be some biblical injunction about that. And have them direct their response to Pemberley, as we will, G-d willing, be there by the time they get the letter and respond."

"...And I would like to see my nephew," Grégoire admitted. "And perhaps the newer one, eventually. And my sister."

"Ireland would be much closer. It would be different, but it would be closer. And Elizabeth's never seen Ireland. Nor have I, in fact. And when she can eventually travel again ..."

"Do you think she will like me?"

"Who?"

"Georgiana. I mean – presence, it won't upset her – "

"The idea of our father being – not who he said he was, that onus is on him, Grégoire. And Georgiana is the sweetest, most loving creature in the world, and is your age. So I imagine you will get along just fine. In fact, I believe she has always wanted a brother – one closer to her age."

He did not say, at least out loud, that he had always wanted one, too.

... Next Chapter - The Last Journey

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_(1) According to _Pride and Prejudice_, Bingley's inheritance was 100,000 pounds. Darcy's inheritance was more complicated by being caught up in Pemberley and Derbyshire and was not stated._


	20. The Last Journey

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

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Chapter 21 – The Last Journey

Undisturbed, Brian Maddox slept right through breakfast and most of the morning. He had not stirred by the time of the arrival of his brother, who had clearly been traveling most of the night in order to get to Kirkland. "I apologize for my intrusion," the doctor said, "but I heard my brother was here. Caroline, by the way, is fine." He apparently was already predicting Bingley's next question as his summer coat was removed and he was ushered into the sitting room for refreshment. "He left a note in my box. I assumed the business was too urgent for a visit."

"It was," Mr. Bennet said, and since Maddox had been a part of this from the beginning, he explained the nature of the letter and its delivery, including the settlement. Doctor Maddox, unlike everyone else Mr. Bennet spoken with since the wild-haired courier had arrived, did not inquire the precise sum. Apparently he was perfectly satisfied with 'a considerable amount' and merely took his tea.

"Happy news, then," the doctor said at last. "And if I might inquire how Miss Bennet is doing – though you have no obligation to tell me – "

"The mid-wife says she is fine," Mr. Bennet said. "She keeps her distress to herself, but I think having other children about is a great comfort to her."

"They can be charming. And I may have heard something from a bird about a noodles incident – "

"Oh yes," Mr. Bennet said. "But we shan't talk about that, right? Forbidden topic, Mr. Bingley?"

Mr. Bingley visibly colored. "No. That is over and done with and not to be discussed. _Ever_."

"I will remark, though, that Geoffrey is getting most clever with his pranks," Mr. Bennet said. "And they are most amusing to the people not targeted."

"_Yes_," Bingley said with some severity, and Maddox had enough sense not to further question his host. Fortunately he did not have to, because they were joined by his hobbling brother.

"Danny!" with no lack of enthusiasm, they embraced. "Look at you. I think marriage has made you taller. If you weren't towering over me already."

"Maybe you're shrinking," the doctor said. "How did you get back to England?"

"Well, it is an island, so the same way everyone else does – by boat," he said, and bowed to his hosts. "Mr. Bingley. Mr. Bennet."

"Mr. Maddox," Bingley said. "How are you?"

"I wouldn't say I'm quite ready to be back on the road again, but now I can at least contemplate the idea," he said, and took a seat with his brother, helping himself to some of the scones that had been brought out. "And to answer the question properly, I was fortunate to find a man willing to pay off my still-standing debts in Town if I carried a letter for him. So, though I am not eager to go tromping about dark alleyways, I am legally free again. Besides, I must get back to Italy in all haste, so that the Darcys can return. I believe they are eager to do so. But - ," and he held up a free hand, holding another roll in the other, "if I can get a ride back with them, perhaps, I can be in time to see if my nephew or niece has that Irish hair."

"It's not Irish," Bingley insisted.

"I didn't say it was bad. I have nothing against the wild, savage, Papist Gaels over the crossing. In fact, it's well known that Maddoxes go _wild_ over them."

The doctor just took off his glasses and sighed, and Mr. Bennet had a good laugh. All at poor Bingley's expense, of course.

"You have more time, if you wish it," the doctor said. "The child won't be going anywhere."

"But I must be in the Romany mountains by Christmas. Before the hard snow sets in."

"Work?"

"You could ... call it that. But you would be wrong," Brian said. "I am to be married."

"_What?_" Both Maddox and Bingley rose in response to the news.

"Sorry not to mention it in the letters, but I haven't entirely decided on it. But the date is set."

"Then how, pray tell, is it not decided?" asked Mr. Bennet.

"Funny story – "

Doctor Maddox put his glasses back on and crossed his arm, "Somehow I don't think this story is going to be very funny."

"Depends on your perspective. You see, I sort of lost ... myself ... in a bet. Now, I thought it was going to be some kind of labor transaction, but apparently, this count or baron or whatever wants me to marry his daughter, for whom he has not found a husband to his liking. And for whatever reason, I am to his liking. Now if I had known _that_ and had known what cards he was holding when I raised – "

It was impossible – Bingley could not help but laugh, though he did cover his mouth when he did it, while the doctor's expression was entirely un-amused. "So you are to marry a Romani girl because of a bet?"

"Not Romani. Those are the gypsies. She's _Romanian_. And she's a princess."

"A Princess!" Mr. Bennet said. "My my, this gets better all the time."

"Have you even met her?" Daniel Maddox demanded.

"Once. No, twice. And to be honest, she isn't so terrible at all. A real jewel hidden away in that massive castle. And was very sweet to me, if a bit shy."

"You cannot be serious."

"Oh, I'm quite serious. The question now is to never go back to Romany again or go back and stay for the rest of my life. Minus some traveling abroad. Or, when the count – I believe he is a count – when he dies, as I would inherit his estate, I could abandon it if I pleased. So, you see my dilemma. Not that I am expecting an answer from you, though you probably would at least like to comment on my terrible habits and how much trouble they've gotten me into. Well, to be honest, if I didn't show, I don't think he would chase me. But it might break her poor heart. That's the real issue. Certainly, I've run away from altars before, but usually I thought the woman deserved it. So go now, make your condemning response to my insipidly stupid behavior."

But the doctor had no response. He was standing there, gaping, towering over his brother but not saying anything. He scratched his head and after some time said, "...Congratulations?"

"You support it?"

"I ... don't know. I mean, do you know her? You only met her twice?"

"Yes," Brian said. "But that's double the amount of times a couple in her country normally meets before marriage, so one could say we know each other quite well. None of this business of slow courtship through balls and dinner invitations and letters and more dinners and more letters and going on walks when all you know you want to do is marry the poor girl. Plus, she expects an arranged marriage, so I would say, she seemed mildly surprised that I was so – I don't know, _nice_ to her."

No one could seem to gather any response to this all, even Mr. Bennet. It was Brian who had to continue, "But, enough about me. How's my sister-in-law?"

"She's ... fine," Doctor Maddox stammered. "I think I need to sit down."

"I told you I have the summer. Will you relax already? And I must go back to Italy and then come back here first. Plenty of time. What are you so worried about?"

"Your welfare. And, apparently your sanity," his brother replied.

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In utmost secrecy later that day, as his brother rested from the long ride from Town, Brian passed a letter to Mary Bennet in the hallway, quietly and with no one around. He had barely turned around when he was facing Bingley, trying to look as intimidating as possible. "Mr. Maddox."

"Mr. Bingley."

"My office?"

Brian Maddox rolled his eyes but did follow him into his study. "So – how is my sister-in-law? Danny is too modest."

"She's fine. What was that?"

"Aren't you the noble guardsman."

"Mr. Maddox."

Brian sat down. "It was a private letter from Mr. Ferretti to Miss Bennet, that I was asked to deliver along with the other one. Yes yes, I know it's highly improper for an unmarried man and an unmarried woman to post and all that nonsense, but I do think they know each other well enough for one last correspondence. Or whatever it was. It was sealed, and despite the fact that I am perfectly capable of breaking a seal and then closing it up again without the appearance of having done so, I did not read it on the way. _That _letter, anyway. 150,000 pounds, huh? He must be one of those old noble families. Probably traces his roots to the Roman Imperials."

"But Darcy asked you to deliver this?"

"Yes. And isn't he the model of propriety or some such nonsense?"

Bingley found he could not openly contradict him. "So I suppose it should be permitted. I would certainly not want to upset Miss Bennet at this stage."

"I'm not the doctor, but I would say yes to that. Anything else?"

"Since you are here," Bingley said, "how are the Darcys?"

"Quite well, now that this is settled. Or, they seemed to be. They would have sent all kinds of presents but they didn't want to weigh down my load. But they are very eager to be back, I think. And you are probably eager to have young Master Darcy off your hands."

"How are they intending to return?"

"They had not decided. Initially, when I met them on the road from Paris, they said they might come back more leisurely, but now they may have had enough of Europe and missing their son."

"And have they learned the language or will they bring their guide all the way?"

Brian leaned back, his mood altered. "Odd thing for you to ask."

"Why?"

"Just, thinking that."

"Is there something you're not saying?"

"Is there something _you're_ not saying?" Brian said. "G-d, I hate circular arguments, unless I'm winning them. Yes, Mr. Bingley, if it will satisfy you as my host, I will say graciously that I believe they intend to return with their monkish guide, and that is all I am permitted to say at this time."

"Oh," Mr. Bingley said. "Very well, then." He rose, which meant Brian was free to leave, and his guest excused himself.

Outside, Daniel Maddox was waiting, having just awoken from his nap. "What was that about?"

"Espionage. Secrets and lies," Brian said dramatically. "There any food about?"

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It was only two days before Brian declared himself well enough to leave again, and his brother did not put up argument. With the reply and some new clothes (having thoroughly ruined the old ones) he got back on his horse, and together with his brother, made for Town. At an exceptionally fast pace, they arrived in Town not a day later, and only at the doctor's insistence did Brian agree to rest the night at the house before getting on the boat.

"You don't have any pain in your back? When you ride?" the doctor finally, nervously inquired.

"No, none at all."

"And running?"

"No pain, just that damned limp. The leg won't go in certain directions, that's all. I've gotten used to it. And you already said you can't repair nerves."

"I wouldn't dare," Daniel Maddox said as they awaited the arrival of his wife, who was apparently resting upstairs. "Surgery is a painful and dangerous procedure, even if I thought I could fix something."

"Maybe that was the attraction of the count. He might think I can't run away from him if I hurt his daughter. Or him, to get his fortune. Not that I would."

"Brian, you can't be serious."

"Perhaps I am," Brian smiled, making it impossible to tell if he was. "Perhaps I should settle down. I'm almost forty, Danny, and a cripple. Maybe I should recognize that G-d is handing me something, even if it is in the hills of Romany." He turned. "But look. If it isn't the Gaelic goddess herself. Mrs. Maddox."

"Mr. Maddox," Caroline said, descending the stairs. How she had safely managed into a beautiful gown at her stage, neither had any idea, but she was still, but for her midsection, the imagine of grace and female form. Her curtsey, however, was excusably minor. "How are you?"

"Quite well, all things considered and that you may here otherwise. But I must be off in the morning, sadly. I have a most important letter to deliver."

Only when things were fully explained and she was satisfied was he permitted to go to sleep, and in the morning, they saw him off.

"Why is it your brother is do dutiful to the Darcys?"

"I believe the answer is obvious," Daniel Maddox said. "Besides, he has always been a man of honor when not at a card table or in a gambling den. Unfortunately, he is usually at one of the two."

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It was two weeks, many bribes, many horses, and a few close calls with authorities before Brian Maddox was back over the border and into the ancient hills of Italy. He instinctively headed towards the villa. His instincts were often very keen, except when it came to games of chance, it seemed. Stopping to take a breather by a stream that must eventually have fed the Tiber and then the ocean, he washed his neck and sat in the shade. He knew if he just leaned against the tree, he would be fast asleep, and lose the day, and he was not foolish or fast enough to travel this area at night.

He had lied a little to Daniel. He did, at time, have pains that a surgeon told him were phantom, in his chest. He had lost weight. He had grey in his hair, coming in at the roots. He was becoming an old man before his time. Maybe settling down would not be such a terrible idea. Perhaps that very notion was why he had not gambled a penny since the day he met Nadezhda in private, during their second meeting, when they were afforded some time alone on a balcony, out of sight of her overbearing, bearded hulk of a father. Why was he turning his thoughts to her now? Wasn't he on an important mission? His brother would never grant his consent – not he needed his brother's consent. He was a man and besides, the older one. But he just wanted Danny's look of approval for once, nodding just once in a way that said, _You've done something right. I know, I'm as shocked as you are_. Only, Daniel Maddox wouldn't say it that way.

He got back on his horse, and continued his journey. He made it to the villa just outside Rome in another two days. There he found an overeager Darcy shaking his hand and not doing the proper thing of reading the letter in private, in whatever room he designated his study. He read it aloud to all present. Mr. Bennet accepted the terms. All that he wished was his daughter's happiness, of course. (And they knew Mr. Bennet meant it)

Darcy turned unceremoniously to Brian and said, "What is the absolute fastest way to get to England without riding?"

"Without riding? By carriage."

"We could not go fast, by carriage."

Brian shrugged, confused. "Then, I suppose, you could charter a boat that would go around France and take you to home. But it would be a monstrous expense and still take time."

"How long?"

He was getting alarmed by the urgency in Darcy's voice. Darcy rarely laid his emotions so bare. "Uhm, three weeks at best, to sail all the way around France. Maybe."

"Can you look into it for me? Immediately?"

"Of course," he said. "What is this all about? What's wrong?"

"It's not – wrong," Elizabeth said. "Nothing is wrong. I just cannot ride on a horse and we need to return."

"And even the carriage would be a bit bumpy," Darcy said.

"Oh," Brian said. And then again, "_Oh_. Well, uhm, why don't I see about a ship then. A fast one."

"Cost is not a concern," Darcy stressed. "I will go to Rome now with the letter and see about the financial arrangements. They will probably take a day or two."

"And I will return as fast as possible from the port with arrangements," Brian said. "A day or two. I hope your brother has adapted to life at sea, Mr. Darcy, or we'll all be in a lot of trouble. Though, a man can survive without food for a long time if he is kept with properly watered."

"Don't make Grégoire sound like a plant," was all Darcy had to say to that. "And you have made the assumption that I intend to take him back to England."

"But I am probably correct."

Darcy, it seemed, felt himself at a loss, and only shrugged. They had more urgent business to attend to.

The Darcys, together and separately, said their good-byes to Rome. It was a pleasant place, but it was not home, not even to Grégoire, who spent the most time there. One night, he did not return at all, and Darcy stayed up in concern, long after his wife had retired. He was sitting on the stairs, knowing Grégoire would have to climb them to get to his room. When his brother did reappear, the sun was rising, and he looked exhausted. He shambled up the steps, nodded to Darcy, and attempted to make his way to his room. Darcy grabbed his bloodied robes. "I thought we spoke of this."

"The last time, Darcy. For Elizabeth."

"Explain to me, in detail, how this will help my wife."

"It is not a medical thing to be stated. It is a matter of faith, brother, that the yoke of heaven can be pulled off one person and assigned to another." He turned around, and despite his obvious extreme discomfort, stared right back up at his towering, intimidating brother. "I would not see her suffer. She deserves only happiness."

"While I disagree with your methods, I agree with the notion, however misguided, that we both wish the best for Elizabeth. But, if this is truly the last time, then I will take your word as a solemn vow."

"I vow it." Grégoire crossed himself.

"Then," Darcy said, "let me help you to your room. That is, I believe, not part of the program."

Grégoire did not contradict him. As the birds chirped for early morning, Darcy bandaged his brother, leant him a shirt, and ordered the last remaining servant to wash out his robe with as much soap as possible. It was not until the monk was asleep on his mat on the floor that Darcy returned to his own bed, sliding next to Elizabeth, a hand on her stomach, and fell asleep. There was silence as he drifted off, and for the moment, that was enough.

...Next Chapter - The Long Way Home


	21. The Long Way Home

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

**Author's Note:** Many of you have been disturbed by or asked questions about Grégoire's flagellant tendencies. While it may seem foreign, or even to me (as my own religion forbids self-harm), the use of the Discipline (the whip) and other devices were common enough in ascetic orders of monasticism as a means of penance or of trying to identify with the wounds of Jesus. This practice has continued in some sects to the modern day. Modern Catholics known to have used these items include Padre Pio and Mother Theresa. You don't have to agree with it (Darcy clearly doesn't), but it exists as a form of religious expression to some people.

Learn more (if you want to) about this on Wikipedia. Remove the spaces to get the link.

en. wikipedia. org/ wiki/ Flagellant

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Chapter 21 – The Long Way Home

The three weeks spent on the ship were easily the most miserable ones of Darcy's entire life that did not involve some emotional disaster. In fact, despite the confrontation with Wickham, who he had decided would have to be told, hanging over his head, he was most looking forward to returning to England now that their business was concluded as favorably as it could have been, beyond even his own expectations. He had gained a brother and in some measure restored a sister-in-law to a position in which she could live her life. He missed Geoffrey and the Bingleys terribly, and there was of course the exhilarating matter of Lizzy being pregnant again. All of this put him in a good mood – until he stepped on that boat.

For now he had two sick people to deal with, not one. Grégoire had not overcome his seasickness and did not do so over the course of the trip. And Elizabeth was ill as well, and the rocking of the boat apparently made her maternal sufferings worse. They spent most of their time lying on the deck between rushes to the edge.

"How can you even – Grégoire, I know for a fact you haven't eaten anything in two days now! It isn't even possible! I don't know biologics and I know that!" Darcy protested helplessly, to which Elizabeth gave a very pale smile and Grégoire just collapsed from exhaustion, to be hoisted up again and helped back into his lounge chair by Darcy.

His only reprieve was when the ship ported briefly in France, and they had time to get off the boat and eat something our of fear of starvation, and were somewhat restored while on land. Then they got back on the boat and his misery resumed.

He barely had time to take aside his exhausted brother. "When we return to England – obviously, there will be some shock, but I wanted to ask if you wished to be called Grégoire Bellamont or Grégoire Darcy."

"Excuse my lack of knowledge of custom – "

"It is nothing. It is whatever you wish."

But Elizabeth, barely conscious herself but aware enough to listen in, knew it to be otherwise. What Darcy was offering was to acknowledge Grégoire as a Darcy, in direct opposite of convention for a bastard son. She doubted he would offer the same thing to Wickham.

Grégoire shook his head. "I am just a humble servant of the Lord. Please, brother, call me whatever suits you."

This was no help to Darcy, of course, and even Grégoire must have known that, but Elizabeth could not help but smile at Darcy's exasperation. She knew, in private, that his plans for his brother were comprehensive, to convince him to at least switch to a monastery in Ireland or somewhere closer to England, where he could be visited more regularly. And Darcy could be as convincing as Grégoire could be stubborn, but she figured she would glean what amusement she could from it.

Since they were moving faster than the mail, their arrival was unannounced and they received no reception at the docks. No one was expecting them home for at least a month, and they could only hope that Georgiana was at in Town to receive them when they showed up at the Darcy townhouse. But first there was the matter of getting Grégoire across the long, sloped plank between the dreaded ship and the dock.

"How is a man who lives on a mountain afraid of heights?" Darcy said as he practically carried him down the plank.

"Mountains are not generally directly over water," Elizabeth pointed out as she stepped onto the wood of the dock, and then the cobbled stones above English soil.

The Darcys were back.

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Though their desire to see Geoffrey was now immense, they could not go straight to Derbyshire. It was not practical or polite to Georgiana, who they found in the sitting room, at the piano. That she was surprised at their sudden arrival was an understatement. "Brother!" She ran to embrace him before the equally-shocked servants could get his coat off and his manservant could be called. "Sister!"

"Oh, please don't," Elizabeth said. "Or I will be ill. Please, I must sit."

Darcy, ill only from exhaustion, said politely as he could manage to the servants rushing to his side to great their master, "Please get some tea and food and have it brought into the parlor immediately. And call for a courier." After Georgiana released him, he helped the green-looking Elizabeth to a comfortable sofa. "Sit. We are home."

In her state, she merely gestured to Grégoire, and Darcy realized the massive duty he now had, beside getting his brother back to health. "Georgiana," he said softly, "Please allow me to introduce Brother Grégoire Bellamont of the Cistercians, our half-brother."

Grégoire bowed, not the polite bow of a gentleman, but the deep bow of an exceedingly humble man.

"But – that means father – "

"Yes, it does mean father," he said, knowing the sentence made no sense. "I was as surprised as you are, but he is, in fact, our father's son. He is but five months younger than you."

Georgiana looked hard at Grégoire, sizing up the young monk before her in his tattered robes and outright bizarre haircut, before running across the room to embrace him. Grégoire stiffened before accepting this, and hesitantly put his arms around Georgiana.

"I've always wanted a brother," she said. "I mean, my own age." She pulled away so he had to look into her face. "Did father really leave you so poor?"

"No, he was very kind to me," Grégoire said in that bizarre part French, part Derbyshire brogue, part cultured Englishman accent. Over their travels, he had picked up on the way the way Darcy and Elizabeth spoke, and now that they thought about it, the change was noticeable.

"In fact, Grégoire is one of the richer men in England," Darcy said. "Father was indeed very kind. This is merely his own religious persuasion, and he is as stubborn as the rest of our family about it. But as you get acquainted, I must send some couriers to let others know that we are here."

"Yes," she said as Darcy left, leaving the three of them, and Georgiana turned to Elizabeth. "You are home quite early."

"We decided rather abruptly to return by ship, which was faster than a land courier, so there was no way to send a message ahead."

"Is everything all right?"

"Oh yes," Elizabeth said as tea was served. "Just Darcy being his nervous self about getting home safely since we discovered I was with child."

"Oh! Elizabeth!" Georgiana briefly abandoned her newfound brother to hug her sister-in-law, despite her modest protests. "How wonderful! When is your confinement?"

"Oh, I'm barely a month along. I haven't even thought about it. I was honestly just thinking of returning home. But we must catch up. And Grégoire, _eat something_. You're on land now."

"Thank the Lord," Grégoire said, and crossed himself as the servants appeared with platters of cakes and tea. "His Holiness may be a fisher of men, but I am no seaman."

"I think we have proved that, yes," Elizabeth said, grinning to Georgiana. "He has no sea legs at all. Between him and my feminine ills, Darcy had his hands full the whole voyage making sure we didn't fall off the boat. But, tell me, how is Geoffrey? How much trouble has he gotten into?"

"I wouldn't say, a _lot_ of trouble. That I've heard of," she said. "Or from what I've heard from Mr. Bingley, who is in town every other week to check on his sister. Or at least, he has not said anything terrible of him."

"Mrs. Maddox – she's must be nearing confinement now, am I correct? Oh, I've terribly lost track of time."

"She is a month into it. It would be at Kirkland, but – Doctor Maddox is required in Town and she will not leave him, or him, her. I dine there most nights. He won't talk about his royal patient, of course, but he has met the king! And he is insane!"

"The king, or Doctor Maddox?"

"Elizabeth!" Georgiana turned to her newfound sibling, who was taking his food in silence. "Brother, I must explain. Caroline Maddox is Mr. Bingley's older sister, who has recently married Doctor Maddox, who is now the royal physician to the Prince Regent. It is all terribly complicated when our three families get together. Kirkland, I hear, is a madhouse."

"And my sister?" Elizabeth asked.

She did not have to inquire which one to get an answer. "She is quite well, from what I hear, all things considered. And Mr. Bennet, from Mr. Bingley's description, is much relieved at the settlement. Everyone is. Brother has saved the day again! Oh, now I must specify _which_ brother."

It was then that Darcy reappeared in the entrance. "I've posted to Kirkland. And to Pemberley, to open up the place. Darling, do you wish to dine with the Maddoxes tonight, or just rest here? We should see them before we go, and if everyone is recovered enough, I would very much like to strike for Kirkland tomorrow."

"Yes," she said. "Kirkland tomorrow, please. And I am well enough now. Grégoire?"

He broke his eating to say, "Now that I am on land, I should be fine."

"And Doctor Maddox _is_ a doctor," Darcy said.

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A similarly exhausted Brian Maddox shambled his way to the Maddox townhouse, and was warmly greeted by his brother and_ very_ confined sister-in-law, who were not told a date and therefore a bit, though not overly, surprised to see him.

"I suppose I must treat my hosts to some gossip, as I'm sure Mrs. Maddox would enjoy it," he said.

"Absolutely," said Caroline.

"But you have to promise me not to tell the Darcys I told you and act all surprised when you hear it from them. For I know your promises are much better than mine and I can actually count on them."

"Oh, out with it, already," she said with a role of the eyes, leaning on her husband. Even the good doctor's interest looked a bit piqued.

"It seems Mr. Darcy has returned to England with a bastard brother he did not previously know of," he said. "Though, honestly, I'm having trouble calling a monk a bastard."

This was, indeed, the kind of gossip that made Caroline Maddox (nee Bingley) most excited, to the point where she almost fell over giggling, and the doctor had to hold her up. "You can't be _serious_."

"I most certainly am. I spent three weeks on a boat with the seasick bugger. Though he is most pious and – young. He's younger than Miss Darcy, I believe. Don't have the exact dates. He's very much like her, but looks like what I imagine to be a young Darcy."

"So, sweet and pious but stubborn as hell?"

"Precisely. They've tried to talk him out of the whole monastic business, but he won't budge."

"Oh, thank G-d," Caroline said between laughter. "I haven't heard an interesting thing in weeks. Louisa hardly knows anything, Miss Darcy is too polite to even _listen_ to Town gossip, and my dear husband here, who made me this way, won't tell me a single thing about the Prince."

The doctor, feeling compelled to preserve his dignity, said, "He has brown hair."

"That I know! I saw him, dear."

"Driving your poor wife batty with your discretion, aren't you, Danny?" Brian smiled, to which his brother could only shrug.

Doctor Maddox immediately called on the Darcys, who were intending only to stay the night in Town despite their exhaustion and head out to Derbyshire after Darcy concluded some Town business the next day. He invited them to dinner, and what was apparently four Darcys sat at his table, including a young man who was most certainly a monk. Daniel hadn't seen a proper tonsure in years, even if this one was lacking some care from the journey and the hair on the top of his head was stubbornly trying to grow out again. That and their tales of Rome and France brought back a flood of pleasant memories, but they did not press too hard, for the Darcys were positively bushed, and Brother Grégoire, with his strange mixture of accents, would not speak while eating and look very intimidated by the amount of strange dishes. It was Brian, in fact, who was forced to tell the tale of how he came meet them in France, though he was uncharacteristically modest about it, and Elizabeth chipped in with the actual details of how he'd saved all of their lives. Despite the intense interest of their hosts, the guests were released early, to be off to well-deserved rest. It was only Darcy who took a moment to corner the doctor in a hallway, which came as no surprise to Maddox.

"Is Mrs. Darcy well?" he asked mildly.

"Yes, as much as can be expected. Though the boat was a miserable experience for someone ill in the morning, we were advised by a doctor in Rome that it would do her no harm. My concern is with my brother."

The doctor merely nodded silently, waiting for him to continue.

"At a later date – perhaps, when we are properly settled at Pemberley, I would like him to be checked."

"For what, precisely?"

"He is a monk from one of the strictest orders. He has spent years destroying his body." Darcy didn't seem to be eager to explain it, but Maddox was not an uneducated man, and nodded. "We are now just restoring him to a decent state of health. If you would look at him – "

"Gladly." He added, "And I do recommend, if I could, that you make some arrangements for him to not wear the same robe every day, as I imagine he does. It does lead to diseases of the skin. Or at least, an undershirt."

"He is most intractable about his habits."

"How odd," Maddox said in a tone that meant precisely the opposite. "Well, Mr. Darcy, I will do what I can, as soon as I can. Which may have to wait until after Caroline delivers, if it can."

"I believe it can. It has waited years, after all."

Maddox nodded again, and Darcy appeared relieved. That, for the moment, was enough.

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The Darcys did end up spending most of the morning in Town, as Elizabeth and Grégoire slept long, and Darcy had to make various banking arrangements so he was not carrying a massive check all around England. They would be finalized when Mr. Bennet returned to Longbourn, but at the moment, they stood, and the trust for Miss Bennet's child, if she delivered successfully, was set up.

He returned to the house with a coach ready. Georgiana would be joining them, eager to be in Pemberley again, and apparently eager to spend time with her newfound brother. But first, Kirkland, where everyone they currently held dear was lodged.

Because Darcy would not let the carriage go at full speed, the trip took a full two days, lodging in familiar inns (and terrible wines by their new standards).

At Kirkland, they were expected, thanks to letters sent ahead, and it was Geoffrey who saw them first, waiting not inside but some ways down along the road, and who came running out before anyone could, running straight into his mother so hard as to almost tackle her. "Mother!"

"Darling!" she said, kneeling to greet him at his size, because she wouldn't dare pick him up. "You've grown," she said as they embraced. "Oh, I missed you so much."

"It does seem so," said the smiling Darcy, who patted his son on the head. Geoffrey Darcy had gained, in the roughly four months they were gone, nearly an inch. He was nearing three years now, when his education would begin. They had missed so many precious months ... it pained him, but he would not show it. "Come here," he said, when he could finally tear him away from his mother, and Darcy managed to lift his son into his arms. "My, you are getting a bit heavy for this. Did you miss us?"

"I wrote! Uncle Bingley taught me my initials."

"Indeed he did," Darcy said. "We got your letter." He kissed him on the cheek. "Now, please greet your Aunt Georgiana and your Uncle Grégoire."

He set him down, but Geoffrey only looked up at his father in confusion. "I don't have an Uncle Gre-_Gore_-Ey."

"I did not know it either, until recently. But, you must greet him properly." He patted his son on the back, and Geoffrey did walk over to his waiting relatives and give a proper, adorable bow to his aunt and uncle.

"Our little gentleman," Elizabeth said with tears in her eyes.

"_Finally_," Darcy said, partially in jest.

Geoffrey did finally embrace his aunt, or at least her legs, before turning and staring up in wonder at his new uncle. "Why are you wearing a dress?"

Darcy went to say something, but Elizabeth silenced him with a look.

"It is a robe," Grégoire said, bunching up the sleeves.

"Why are you wearing a robe?"

"Because I am a monk."

"What's a monk? What happened to your head?"

"Nothing happened to my head."

"Then what happened to your hair?"

Grégoire had stopped at a confused barber in Town, and so had the proper areas of his head shaved again. "It is symbolic of the crown of the church."

"Oh." Geoffrey of course meant it without any comprehension, and then turned to his father and said. "Can I have my hair –"

"_No_," Darcy interrupted. "Absolutely not."

"But I want to wear a crown!"

"That's treason, son. Better not let the king hear you say that."

"But Uncle Bingley says that Uncle Maddox says that the king is batty," said Geoffrey, who turned back to his new uncle. "Are you batty?"

"_I_ think he is," Darcy said, and Elizabeth laughed into his shoulder.

They walked the rest of the way to Kirkland, with the carriage going ahead of them, so there was a crowd embossed to greet them. The Darcys had arrived.

"Now, legitimately," said Bingley, "_some_ of this is my own fault."

"You owe me five shillings," Elizabeth whispered to her husband at the site of a Mr. Bingley with his hands and face inked red.

...Next Chapter – The Sad Tale of Mrs. Reynolds


	22. The Sad Tale of Mrs Reynolds

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

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Chapter 23 – The Sad Tale of Mrs. Reynolds

"It is not entirely his fault, certainly," Jane Bingley said as she embraced her sister. "But a man should look in his wash bin before rinsing his face in the morning, to see if someone has poured ink in it."

"I wasn't even fully awake!" Bingley defended, crossing his arms and trying to look stern, which was very hard to do with a bright red face that only made his hair look even more orange. "And who was responsible for that, I say?"

"Very little mystery there," said Mr. Bennet, taking his turn with Lizzy and Darcy.

"It was a surprise! For mother and father," Geoffrey defended.

"And I suppose I will be checking my wash bin every day now. Or at least locking my door better," Darcy said, eyeing his son. "We will settle this when we reach Pemberley, which unfortunately for you, will be very shortly."

There were hugs and kisses and bows all around. And many congratulations for everyone's sake, for a great burden had come off their shoulders – except for Mary, but she was not carrying it on her shoulders. But she did seem much less distressed than in the state they had left her. Darcy introduced Brother Grégoire, to which Bingley only said rather quietly, "the infamous brother." Elizabeth told her parents the great news, something Darcy discovered because of the great shriek from Mrs. Bennet and the flurry and hugs and kisses.

"At last, at last! Oh, Lizzy, you will be a mother again at last, this time I am sure of it!"

"I do not believe she ever stopped," Mr. Bennet said.

And there were trinkets to be distributed, for the Darcys had purchased things for their beloved family in Rome and had been able to put that on the ship without much trouble. Mr. Bennet and Mr. Bingley were exceedingly happy with their rare books, and Mrs. Bennet with beautiful yards, for she did love sowing for her many grandchildren. Kitty had outgrown ribbons, but still loved bonnets, especially those beyond the limits of what could be found in England, and Mary was given a little book of hymns. Little Georgiana Bingley was given a doll that she would carry around until a few years beyond the age where that was acceptable, and would sleep with it until the day she was out.

The Kirkland crowd – and it was, indeed, a crowd – was very unhappy at the idea that the Darcys would not be staying the night, but Darcy put his foot down and said after a long journey, he wanted to see Pemberley in the worst way and if they stayed for dinner, they could not introduce it to his brother properly. The mention of "his brother" turned some heads, for Brother Grégoire's presence had not been explained fully, but Darcy assured them there would be time for all of that when other matters – more pressing – were settled. And so, after only a few joyous hours of reunion at Kirkland, the Darcys set off on the road with the addition of Geoffrey, who was told he would receive his present when his punishment was over, though his punishment was not specified. And so the five of them traveled the last three miles to the great house of Pemberley.

A large audience – almost the entire staff of servants – had gathered to greet their long absent master and mistress. They also awaited the return of Georgiana and her nephew, who trailed behind his father's coattails. What they did not expect was the last member of their party, the young monk who bowed to them deeper than they bowed to him, and would have no one attend to him.

Mrs. Reynolds, as housekeeper, was at the head, and at the sight of Grégoire, even though he was not identified, she paled. Darcy put his arm around the monk and approached her. "This is Grégoire Bellamont from the Monastery of Mon-Claire. Mrs. Reynolds, I believe you have something to explain."

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In the master study, the aged Mrs. Reynolds had to face not one, but three Darcys, as only Geoffrey was excluded and seemed very annoyed by being pulled away from Georgiana. It was only when the door was soundly shut behind them that Darcy took his seat at the desk. Above him hung the portrait of his father, looking regal and proper. "Now," he said as his wife sat next to the terrified housekeeper, and Grégoire stood, "You have undoubtedly surmised Grégoire's heritage, and though I doubt you have every said a dishonest thing to anyone present in your life, that does not mean certain things were not made known to me, I assume under Father's instructions. But now what I would like to know is how you came to know these things."

"Yes, Master Darcy, of course." She was shaking. "Oh, please forgive me, but it was your Father's last wish to me, that you not be knowing these things until the proper time."

"Which would be now," Darcy said.

"Yes, of course."

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1801

Mrs. Reynolds had to quietly admit to herself that she did enjoy her position as housekeeper. It did bring with it tremendous responsibility, and the status was not something she sought after greedily, but there was something to be said for taking pride in keeping Pemberley spick and span. It had been hard at times with three children in the house, one a toddler and two now in their teens at the time of her elevation, and no guiding mother to reign them in. Mrs. Wickham and Mrs. Darcy had died during or immediately after childbirth, and young Master Fitzwilliam, who did so dislike being called that, was the only one who had experienced having the pleasure of a mother for his first ten years. While their Nurses and governess were responsible for them, they answered to Mrs. Reynolds as well as Mr. Darcy, who was busy and a gentleman, and therefore not quite expected to act paternal to Miss Georgiana in an overly interested way, though he did at times. But until the end of his days he was often busy with keeping up the estate, or away from Pemberley, and while he was there, his chief concern was raising his son, the wild Fitzwilliam, who had to some day grow up to be a gentleman and master.

And grow up he did. In fact, despite their single year of age difference, Mr. Wickham and Master Fitzwilliam seemed to be going in opposite directions with their lives, despite a fierce (and often, outright indecorous) competition remaining between them about all the things boys competed about. When they were children, it was riding and fishing and fencing. When they were young men, it was women, though the young George Wickham certainly had the edge there, because Mrs. Reynolds never heard a word about Master Fitzwilliam and any servants or local girls from Lambton, and she heard every word that Pemberley whispered. When the steward Mr. Wickham died, Master Darcy, who was not known for being unkind but certainly was exceeding the general expectation of generosity in this respect, took on all responsibilities for the raising and educating of the son of his steward, and quite obviously, by the year the boys went to Cambridge, was actively turning his eyes away from the young man's actions. He said nary a word when Mr. Wickham was tossed out of Cambridge and embraced him back into the estate while Master Fitzwilliam continued his studies.

The year that the illness became obvious was the year that Master Fitzwilliam returned from touring the Continent, as required by any respectable gentlemen newly graduated from college and not quite ready to settle down for the rest of his life. Upon his arrival, his training as future master, which had truly begun the day he was born, resumed actively, and speed up a bit when Master Darcy's prognosis was delivered. They had a year and it was well spent, so that the transition between masters would be smooth, and the little boy who had once refused to bathe after jumping in a lake stepped up to his responsibilities in a way that made everyone proud.

It was late June, what should have been a pleasant time for everyone before it got truly hot in Derbyshire, but the angel of death hung over Pemberley. To his dying day, Master Darcy would not be idle, and was signing contracts and record books until forcibly locked in his chambers for rest. It was a week before it came to that when Mrs. Reynolds was called into his office – not an unusual occurrence, except that Master Fitzwilliam was not present, as he had been at every meeting for months now, and she knew of no particular topic to be discussed. Clearly he had one; she merely didn't know it.

Master Darcy coughed and asked that she make sure the door was closed, then had her lock it on his behalf.

"Master Darcy."

"Mrs. Reynolds." He did not get up. First, she was a servant. Second, she doubted he could so easily. He was leaning on the desk, propped up by an elbow, his eyes bloodshot. Had he been crying? "Thank you for coming. Do be seated."

Another strange occurrence. The good master was obviously out-of-sorts. He fumbled with something in his hands – a locket that she recognized as having belonged to his late wife. "I know you are a busy woman and I will not take up much of your time and mine, which I am told by my doctors is now precious. Instead I will merely burden you with the most terrible of secrets, as it should be spoken once more before I die, and as you will come to understand, not to my son – yet. I will also thrust upon you the trust that you will find the day to tell him."

To this, she did not know quite what to say.

"You will recall the affair with Ms. Bellamont, my wife's lady-maid. You were, I believe, laundress at the time? But it must have gotten all around Pemberley. I have no doubt of that."

"I do, sir, though I recall little of the specifics, and those that I do, I care not to repeat."

"Then I will summarize. Ms. Bellamont was discharged when my wife discovered she was with child, and the part you perhaps do not know is that the child was mine."

No, she did not know that. She could fathom it, even as he said it, even as the intensity of his gaze confirmed it. The French-born maid was of excellent standing until her dismissal, working her way up the ranks of Pemberley, and that she was dismissed during Mrs. Darcy's confinement with Georgiana was the most damning thing about it – until this point. This implied, of course, that not only had he had a dalliance with a lady-maid (not entirely unknown, but something she would have never expected from Master Darcy), but he did during his own wife's pregnancy.

"Last year," he continued, apparently expecting her stunned silence, "I went to the Continent on business, and that business was to set up an account for my son, who was apparently named the French version of Gregory, after me in some fashion. He lives with his mother in the west of France and intends to join the church. According to the specifications of the account, he will receive a considerable yearly income for the rest of his life, but no records of this account exist in England, and the account can only be altered by me or the executor of my estate – meaning, Fitzwilliam, who obviously knows nothing of this. The timing is terrible, because I do not wish him to lose both me and his esteem of me at the same time. I do not know what would happen to him or to Pemberley, but I cannot chance it. He might go the way George went – as they are so very closely related." He had another coughing fit, and Mrs. Reynolds rose to pour him a glass of water, for he had dismissed the servant meant to do exactly that. After swallowing some, he was able to continue in a hoarse voice. "I do not know which sin is more terrible, but there are two. George Wickham is also my son."

Her heart quickened. Yes, it made sense, on a logical level. He had raised George as a father would raise a son, beyond normal responsibilities, and his affection for his steward did not explain it beyond a certain point. He had many fights with his own son – his proper son – over Mr. Wickham, who was meant to receive a sizable living in the church upon Master Darcy's death. Master Fitzwilliam felt it was undeserved, and many servants believed he had every right, knowing Wickham well enough, to insist that that man deserved no more handouts from Pemberley. But Master Darcy would not relent, and no one could figure the reason. Now, of course, it was clear.

"I love my sons – all three of them. I have provided for all of them, partially I suppose out of guilt. And guilt I should rightfully feel, for being part of the worst kind of deception with Mrs. Wickham, a lovely woman until the day she died, as we never told George. He believed his son was his and named him so, and I did not prevent it. I did not have the courage to come forward and torture this man with the truth. So I am a coward as well as an adulterer. I am the worst master Pemberley has ever had."

"No, Master – "

"Do not try to contradict me. Any good I tried to do in this life will not lift this terrible guilt from my heart. There is no absolution for me because Anne would not give it." He coughed again. Mrs. Reynolds, her mind still wheeling, could not help but notice that Master Darcy, despite his affection for his wife, never called her by her first name in front of a servant. "On her dying day she cursed me. She had found out about Ms. Bellamont, and so she cursed me, by refusing forgiveness and naming our new daughter Georgiana, as the whole story had come out, and I would always hear that name – George, the name of my first sin – when I spoke my own daughter's name, who I would now have to raise alone. She forsook me and she had every right and reason to. But my son doing it on my own death bed – for he could hardly do otherwise, with the morality I've raised him with – that I could not stand. There are some things, Mrs. Reynolds, that are worse than death." He seemed to shield his eyes from her. "Surely you will try to understand why I ask this of you."

"To be plain, sir, what do you wish of me?"

"That you tell Fitzwilliam and Georgiana – at the proper time, whenever you judge it to be. For some day, they should know, perhaps when they are settled and happy and are ready for a blow such as this. When they are, do you know of the old d'Arcy estate? The Rue des Capuchins?"

"I've heard of it, sir."

"I have a bank account at a local bank there that is funding Gregory, or Grégoire as he is called. He knows of his heritage because I spoke to him last year, but I doubt he would come to England of his own motivation. That is perhaps the best way to find him, if this is to be years away. And G-d, I hope it will be." He wiped his eyes with his trembling fingers, because he was definitely crying now. "But I have not said a word of this to anyone but him and his mother since the day Anne died. And now, you will be the only one who will know. I will trust you with this awful burden, Mrs. Reynolds. It is the last thing I will ask of you before Pemberley goes into my son's capable hands."

She nodded and agreed, and he dismissed her. As she went out, she noticed Master Fitzwilliam, soon to be the Master Darcy, passing buy with a folio. She did her best to hide her tears from him. Thankfully, he seemed not to notice.

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1808

"So," Darcy said after the considerable silence that followed her tale. "Wickham is my brother. I had but one strand of hope left that it was not true. And, I suppose, if he had not attempted an elopement with Georgiana – "

" – I would have said something immediately, of course, Master Darcy," Mrs. Reynolds, again in tears, said. Elizabeth put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. The atmosphere in the room, though tense, was not damning. In fact, Darcy was quite cool in his own tone, not dismissive of her at all. "Immediately. Or perhaps I failed and should have said something earlier."

"None of us had that foresight. It seems, fate saved us all from a sin of biblical proportions. Excuse me, G-d saved us from this sin," he said, as Grégoire crossed himself. "Georgiana knows about Grégoire, but not Wickham. I cannot imagine how to tell her, but I must do it."

"Darcy – "

For once, Darcy held a hand up to his wife. "I must do it. But there is also the other person who knows nothing – Wickham himself. This matter must be settled with him first, as I have no idea of his reaction." He sighed and continued, "Though I cannot say I am thrilled at this news of my own father's failings, I cannot find fault with the carrying out of your duties. For you did not know of Wickham's plans for Georgiana any more than I, her legal protector as well as brother, did. And you did point me in the direction of Grégoire at a time when I was content for life and ready for such a blow. And it seems, I have gained at least one brother in this." He looked at Grégoire and smiled wanly, then turned to Mrs. Reynolds. "I am sorry to put you through this inquisition. Now at least you are freed from the responsibility of such a secret."

"If you wish me gone, Master Darcy – "

"Very much the opposite. In a way, father was right, and I am grateful. I modeled my life after the good in him and am now reaping the results. I would not want to imagine it otherwise." He smiled. "Please see to it that Grégoire is situated in whatever accommodations he chooses. My only insistence is that, while in my house, he eats three square meals a day. And he is very clever about his monkish habits, so keep your eyes peeled. Somehow we will have to find a ground between his heritage as a Darcy and his leanings as a Cistercian."

Grégoire flushed and put his head down, but did not look entirely surprised at this. More significant, which he probably did not catch, Darcy had established him as a family member in front of Mrs. Reynolds, who would tell the servants to do so as well. Despite his own inclinations, the master had embraced him as a Darcy and he would be treated as such. And oh, the little monk did look much like his father – unlike Wickham, who favored his mother.

Now the only obvious question still on the table was whether Darcy would show the same sympathy for George Wickham, unknowing in his parentage, and embrace him as a brother as he had Grégoire, however reluctantly. On this, Darcy remained silent.

Next Chapter - The Worst Kind of Call


	23. The Worst Kind of Call

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Note: Sorry for reposting chapters, but does anyone know what the hell is wrong with FF net right now?

* * *

Chapter 23 - The Worst Kind of Call 

The Maddoxes – all three of them – were sitting down to dinner when the bell rang. Obviously for him, the doctor walked passed the servants, who were busy with the serving of the meal itself, and answered the door, peering out into the lamp light of Town's evening streets. "Hello?"

"Doctor." It was the Madame of one of the houses he used to visit. He was quite aware of which house, and had politely informed them upon his commission that they would have to find another doctor, so her appearance was a surprise. Besides, she never actually came herself, but sent a man.

"Mrs. Dudley," he said with a bow. "I regret to remind you that I am no longer – "

"This is not about that," she said, climbing the steps and moving closer enough to whisper to him. "This is about Lilly."

"I must also remind you, I am not a mid-wife."

"She has delivered," Mrs. Dudley said. "Three days ago. And now she is in a terrible way. I know you are not supposed to and I will understand if you do not wish to be associated – "

"No," he said. "Let me get my things."

He hurried back and called for his doctor's bag and his coat, one of the shabbier ones. "A patient," was all he said, but from his clothing, it was obviously not the Prince. He excused himself and kissed his wife good-bye before joining the Madame in her carriage. "Describe her symptoms."

"She has a fever and still bleeds a little. We called the mid-wife back, but she could do nothing. And she is in great pain."

He nodded. He had already made his diagnosis, but he would not announce it until he saw the woman. They traveled across Town, to an apartment near the old house, and Doctor Maddox followed her up a set of very creaky steps to a tiny room where Lilly lay on the bed, barely covered, some of her blanket spotted with blood.

"Miss Garrison," he said with all his doctorly formality, rousing her from her resting state.

"Doc?" Her eyes, somewhat unfocused when he brought the lamp up to see her properly, seemed to look him over like he was arrived from heaven.

"Yes, Lilly," he said, and took her pulse, and put his hand against her forehead. She had a raging fever, but the rest of her body was sweaty and cold. "Tell me where it hurts. Anywhere other than your feminine region?"

"So proper," she said. "No. Just – yeh know."

"Yes. If you wouldn't mind me doing a small inspection –"

"Plenty a men 'ave seen it, doc. Yeh know that."

"That does not prevent me asking permission," he said, and removed from his bag his spectacles, which were monstrously expensive and did not work quite as well as his own eyes, but he used exclusively when he had something he did not want to get in close range of but wanted to see clearly. He pulled up the blanket and asked the Madame to hold up the light so he could see. The smell itself was overpowering, so it was not very hard to make his diagnosis. The problem was, how to do it. He looked at the Madame grimly, but she did not seem so surprised.

It was Lilly herself who was sounded annoyed at the delay. "Out with it."

Maddox took the spectacles off, replaced his normal glasses, and pulled up a chair by her side. "The tissue in your canal is torn from the birth and it is infected."

"From that terrible look on yer face, yeh might's'well just say it."

He did not like this part. "Childbed fever_(1)_, Lilly. The result of a great struggle to bring a child into this world."

She must have known, even with some of her senses left from days of pain and fever, that there was nothing he could do. Infection could hardly be prevented, much less cured. Still, it was horrible not only to know it but to watch the clear reaction on her face, the way she didn't question him for a magic pill or something to at least _help_.

Uncomfortable in the silence, he said, "Is there anything I can do to see to your comfort? I mean, is there anything you would like?"

"I'd like yeh to clock George in the head, but I s'ppose it'd get yeh killed, and yeh deserve yer nice life with yer pretty wife."

The doctor managed a wane smile.

"s'ppose I should name 'im George, what after 'is pop. But I'm so tired." She closed her eyes. "Stay with me?"

"Of course."

"Yeh got this real calming voice, doc."

"You want me to read to you?"

"s'ppose it would be nice. Anything but the bible. Aye don' want ta hear 'bout Hell."

"All right." He had, fortunately, a book in his bag for long visits where he was stuck with an unconscious patient. Plucking the current one out, he cleared his throat, and began to read, " 'The double sorrow I do tell, of Troilus, who was the son of King Priamus of Troy. In love, how his fortunes befell, from sorrow to happiness, and after out of joy – '"

The hour fell late, and his voice was hoarse when he felt the hand he held go limp and cold. "- 'What, is this all the joy and all the rejoicing? Is this your advice? Is this my happy situation?'" He looked up, and closed his book, somewhere in book three of Chaucer's lesser masterpiece. He took her pulse, and called for a priest. One was ready, in fact, in the other room apparently, and as the holy water was touched upon her brow, he removed his glasses, to dry them from his tears. It was he who finally managed to bring the blanket over her face, and paid the priest. Exhausted, he was closing up his bag when he noticed the Madame standing by his side and pointing into the next room. There was a figure there.

"Who – Caroline?" he squinted. The figure in the dark was unmistakable. Only one woman would have a proper gown fitted to the last months of her term and wear it to such a place. Unmistakably, emerging from the shadows in the unlit next room, was his wife, bearing a cooing infant in her arms, wrapped in her own shawl. She looked up from it only to look at the scene before her. Finally, Maddox had the courage to mumble, "You shouldn't be here. It's – "

" – not proper?"

"I was going to say 'sanitary.'" He stood to greet his wife, who presented him with a newborn with a small amount of brown hair, half-asleep but still murmuring softly. He looked at the baby and said to it, "You've no idea." To what, he didn't clarify. He was suddenly tired, and not just because of the hour. He barely had it in him to question his wife as to what she was doing in this awful place; she must have gotten a look at Lilly. It was unhealthy for her here, physically and mentally, so he saved his questions. "Let's go."

"We're taking the child."

"I don't – I don't know where the orphanage is."

"I meant it more generally," she said, and with enough indignation that he had not the means to fight her, stalked off to the couch, child in arm. He was helpless but to follow her into the carriage.

"You can't be serious," he said.

"Daniel, you know every well I am quite capable of being serious."

"But – if -," he struggled for the right words. "To state the obvious, you only have few weeks – "

"And then I will have another infant. Oh dear, he's going to cry. We'd best find a wet nurse. And at this hour!"

"I imagine people will be awake in a few hours." Now, slightly more settled into his side of the carriage, he looked hard at the infant in her arms, and at the look on her face, and he could not decipher it. "What – what brought this on?"

"Is that a yes?"

"You know I would not refuse you anything in the world," he said. "But – I have to admit, I was not expecting – "

"Nor I. But – look at him." The look on her face, for this moment more important than the child itself, was absolutely and utterly _motherly_. "How can this child grow up on in orphanage? To do what with his life? Be a beggar or a thief or a dockworker at best? To never know parents?"

"Well I admit some sympathy to his situation –"

She looked directly back at him. "Can you stand two infants instead of one?"

"It is not a matter of 'standing.'" He settled back into his seat, thoroughly perplexed. "It just – I don't know. I hadn't considered it. I was so focused on ... Lilly."

"Was there hope when you arrived?"

"No," he said sadly.

"Would there had been? Had three days not passed?"

"If she had given birth in a better place, not gotten infected, then perhaps – but beyond that, there was nothing - ," but, he didn't want to have this conversation with his very pregnant wife. He didn't want to tell her that a queen of England had died of infection of torn tissues and there was nothing a doctor or surgeon could do for it. The idea of losing Caroline enough was terrifying. And now to be left with two children, instead of one, assuming it survived? What would he do then?

But this was not about what he wanted – it was about what _she_ wanted. And he knew better than to deny a stressed, expectant woman anything – especially the woman he loved, the woman was constantly surprising him.

Despite the rising sun, they made their way home and Caroline took the boy to the cradle meant, hopefully, for their future child. Fortunately, it was large enough for two. She set him down, and he slept comfortably, immune to the world around him.

"He can never know," Maddox said, putting his arm around his wife as he looked at the boy. He was, despite the circumstances of his birth, beautiful. "Another secret for us."

"A child should know his father."

"His father has refused contact. Now that we have his son in our house, I would not dare to press the Prince again." He leaned on her shoulder tiredly.

"Does he have a name?"

It seemed odd that she hadn't asked that question before. "Lilly said something about George in her ranting, but I believe it was out of spite, and was never official. Nor do I think it would be wise."

"Frederick then?" Caroline said. "I would not saddle a child with the name 'Augustus.' Unless you want him named Daniel."

"No," he said, not needing to explain why. If there was to be a Daniel Maddox the Second, it would be a true son of his blood. "Still a dangerous game we will forever be playing, but I suppose, Frederick, it is. What do you say to that, little Frederick? What say you to any of this?"

But of course, the boy was sound asleep, and said nothing.

* * *

At Pemberley, there was the general ruckus of the master returning. For though Mr. Darcy had spent time away from Pemberley, even seasons, during his bachelorhood, this was the first time since his year on the Continent, when he was not Master of Pemberley anyway, that he was truly abroad and _ex communicado_. There were things to be done, papers to be signed, and of course the small matter of the introduction of a bastard brother and care of his pregnant wife. Georgiana stayed with them, and Mr. Bennet joined them, for Mary still had a few weeks to go and he, feeling his own parental burden lessened by the settlement, felt free to stop watching Mary like a concerned hawk and relax a bit in quiet. The four months of waiting had done nothing good for Mrs. Bennet's nerves, and now she was merely overenthusiastic about the nature of the settlement and herself a bit nervous at the prospect of two daughters facing dangerous childbirth, even if one was far away. Though there was much going back and forth between Kirkland and Pemberley for meals and discussions, and every bit of the adventure on the Continent was told over and over again, the Darcys were happy to be back at Pemberley and would remain there until they were needed at Kirkland for the delivery. 

There were some minor kinks to be worked out. The servants would not settle on calling Grégoire anything but Master Grégoire, which he was uncomfortable with, and they were equally uncomfortable with him returning their bows, however polite and humble he was meaning to be and at whatever length this was explained to them. Darcy sighed at the whole business and was relieved when his wife said, "Dearest, the matter will surely settle itself eventually."

It was now fall, and hunting season, but Bingley was too swept up in his own affairs for much shooting, and so was there less than usual. They didn't even bother asking Grégoire if he wanted to be taught how to hunt. They could assume that much. Darcy did delight in the dual pleasure of simultaneously teaching his son and his brother how to fish.

"Wasn't Jesus a fisherman?" he said as they sat by the lake, waiting for bites.

"He was a carpenter, I believe," Grégoire said.

"Our Lord and Savior, the son of G-d, built houses?" asked Darcy.

"He was a modest man," was the reply.

"I heard he was a fish," said Geoffrey.

"Yes, son," Darcy said, giving him a pat on the back. "He was a carpenter fish. Where in the world did you get that idea?"

"He is referring to the word _ichthys_," Grégoire explained. "It is the word for fish in Greek, but someone noticed that it was also an acronym 'Jesus Christ God's Son is Saviour.' Or something to that effect. So, there are many places in Rome where you can find mosaics with the fish symbol."

"See? Your uncle is very learned, like you shall be someday," Darcy said to his son."

"He also dresses like a girl. Do I have to do that, too?" Geoffrey said, and Darcy would have been stern if Grégoire wasn't laughing.

* * *

A few weeks into their return, Bingley took leave of his guests for Town, as his sister was very expectant and he wished to be there. This had been previously arranged, and he was sent off with the warmest wishes for Mrs. Maddox. 

When arrived a day later, he had a shock waiting for him. He stared for a while at the sight before saying, "Unless I am _severely_ misunderstanding the biologic process – "

"_Charles_," she said in the demeaning manner of hers, "we adopted." For she was, despite her obvious extreme pregnancy, holding a cooing infant in her arms. Hesitantly, he approached her and peered through the bundle at the brown-haired infant. "His name is Frederick."

"I don't suppose – well, uhm – congratulations!" he flummoxed, then looked to the doctor for help, who was just arriving from a call. "While I don't question your intelligence, may I inquire who's idea -?"

Doctor Maddox only shrugged. "Hers. And yes, perhaps ill-timed, but who can say no to his wife? Besides, I rather like him myself."

"And he is – I mean his parentage – "

"The mother was a patient of mine," he said. "She died from the rigors of childbirth and the unsanitary conditions of her apartment. The father wants nothing to do with him, and so it was this or an orphanage."

Bingley was going to go into a line of further questioning that would perhaps go as far as to question their collective sanity, but he saw the delighted look on his sister's face when she held the infant and merely repeated his congratulations on their newborn son. "Twins without the effort. I should have thought of that myself, for Jane's sake. May I – " And the baby was passed to him, and he looked down in wonder at the child who was apparently his nephew. "Hello, Frederick. Well, at least you won't have everyone constantly holding the color of your hair against you."

"Or your face. Charles? Care to explain?"

For indeed, the ink was still there, if fading. "Geoffrey Darcy."

"Oh," she said, because that was enough of an explanation.

* * *

"Here's the plan," Brian said to Bingley after Doctor Maddox had been forced into his study by the mid-wife. Unless something went horribly wrong, he could not attend his own life's labor or the birth of his child, and though this could not have surprised him, it frustrated him to no end. 

"I didn't know a plan was required," Bingley said.

"If we're ever going to get out of him where that child came from, it is required," Brian said. "We get him soused and then you follow my lead. You're a clever guy. Look a bit mental when you smile, but I know you've got brains."

"Did anyone, at any point, teach you manners?"

"I think I lost them along the silk road. Come on."

Mr. Hurst was already in there with the inconsolable Maddox. "_I'm_ the doctor, damnit!" His wife's screams from upstairs seemed to ring him out like one would a washcloth.

"Danny, you're having a child, the hard way. Sit down and have a drink." Brian removed from his jacket a small bottle of what appeared to be water, its label all in some foreign language.

Mr. Hurst immediately took hold of it. "What is this?"

"Vodka. And very fine stuff, the best I'm told. From Saint Petersburg." He took it from Hurst, popped what appeared to be some sort of cap with expertise, and poured his brother a small glass, and then some for him, and some for Bingley, but of considerably smaller amount. "Drink up."

Caroline wailed again, and the doctor downed his glass.

"We could make a drinking game out of it," Brian said.

"We'd all be under the table, then," Bingley said.

"Well, you could probably drink our English stomachs under the table."

"I'm not Irish!" Bingley insisted.

"Pass the whiskey. Or vodka. I don't care," Doctor Maddox said in a plea of despair. In fact, it was not long and after very few screams that he was woozy and red-eyed. "Oh G-d. What have I done to her? I've ruined her!"

"What are you talking about?" Bingley said. "She's the happiest I've ever seen her since she married you. Well, not precisely _now_, but until now, and probably tomorrow sometime. You've given her two children."

"And she didn't even have to have one of them," Brian said. "Patient of yours, huh?"

"Yes," Maddox slurred. "Confenti-al. Ity." He seemed to be having trouble with the words. "Descreeet."

"Can you describe her?"

"Lilly ... Lilly died of childbed fever. If she wasn't ... if there were _sanitary conditions _..." he trailed off and took another swig from his glass, unaware that it was empty when he did so. Brian filled it again.

"So you knew her first name?"

"She – wasn' a patient. I mean, until."

"Was she beautiful?"

"I – s'ppose. I mean, I never looked at her ... I never did her. I could have. But you know ... not associating with her."

It was Brian who spoke again as his brother drained his glass and Bingley closed his ears to a particularly loud yell. "Wait a minute! Was this that whore who visited you two months ago?"

"_Lilly was not a whore_!" Maddox slapped his glass on the table. "She was ... well, _technically_, she was a whore. By profession. But that doesn't mean she deserved to die abandoned. She was a lady." His mood, if not already, was positively dour.

"And the father?"

"Can't – can't talk about him."

"But if he wants nothing to do with his child, and he is not a patient – "

"He _is_ a patient," but it came out more like 'ish.' "Besides. 's treason."

Bingley and Brian stared at each other. They only knew, offhand, of one other of Maddox's patients –

"George Augustus _Frederick_," he whispered to Bingley.

"No!"

"Danny," Brian said. "Are you drunk enough to tell us if the Prince is the father?"

"Not enough," Maddox said. "Pour me 'nother."

Brian laughed. "All right. Mr. Hurst?"

Mr. Hurst was far ahead of them, however, and was already in too much of a stupor to respond.

"But suppose, then, we talk of Frederick himself. He's not your patient. And he is my nephew, and I am very concerned for his health," Bingley said. "Especially his blood. Would you say he is of a ... royal bloodline?"

"Oh G-d, what have we done?" the doctor moaned. "I mean, we didn't do anything. He wants nothing to do with his son. _His own son_. Frederick would have gone to an orphanage with its terrible, _unsanitary_ conditions." He raised his eyes, his glasses askew on his face. "You cannot tell _anyone_."

"That, I think, we can swear on," Brian said, raising his glass. "Mr. Bingley?"

"Mr. Maddox. Doctor Maddox. I swear never to speak of this again."

"Even to your wife! Even to your sister!" Maddox shouted. "No, your other sister!"

"Very well. Louisa shall never hear it from my lips."

"Oh, thank G-d," Doctor Maddox said, and passed out on his desk.

He was not roused again until very early in the morning, long after Bingley himself had fallen asleep on the couch, and it was Brian who shook his brother awake. "Come on."

Still half-asleep and hung-over, the doctor was led up the stairs and into his wife's bedroom, where he was seated on the armchair beside her and a baby was placed in his arms. He started at it numbly, barely aware in his stupor that he was holding his new daughter.

* * *

Frederick and Emily Maddox were christened together, nearly five days later, when Doctor Maddox finally judged his wife's health was returned enough for a short trip to the cathedral. The girl, with her very Bingley orange hair, was named after her maternal grandmother. In attendance, with everyone caught up in Derbyshire, were merely the Bingleys and the Maddoxes. Jane had come down to be there for her niece and nephew, as Charles would be leaving almost immediately after the ceremony and they would ride together. Louisa and Mr. Hurst were named godparents, lacking the abilities to be parents themselves, and they all returned to the Maddox house so the children could be settled in their crib, and there was much giving of presents to two children who were totally unaware of the events surrounding them. 

Excusing themselves after the brunch, Mr. and Mrs. Bingley were back on the road to Kirkland, assure that the doctor would join them when they sent for him or Caroline was ready to travel, whichever came first.

"_Two_ children," Jane said in the carriage, leaning into her husband. "For the work of one."

"I know. Why didn't we think of that?"

"Charles!"

He took his hand. "Are you thinking what I am thinking?"

"I am ... more open to the idea of more children, should they come to be. But it is all for G-d to decide, as our new brother-in-law would say."

"Well, if it is a Christening that makes you so maternal, you may very well have one to enjoy very soon."

"I never said I stopped loving our children! I just would prefer that we have them at a convenient time and order!" She nestled into his shoulder. "Oh, if only life were so simple."

"It would certainly be less interesting."

...Next Chapter – The Last Bennet

* * *

_(1)Doctor Maddox is referring to Puerperal fever, also known as septicemia._


	24. The Last Bennet

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Note: I debated a bit before putting up this chapter, considering its ending, and the fact that I have a very serious operation tomorrow that will prevent me from posting for at least a couple days. Then I realized that many fanfic authors are dorks who never finish their stories or post chapters like once every couple months. And I like reading comments, even in a post-anesthesia haze. So, here it is.

* * *

Chapter 24 – The Last Bennet 

Maddox did make it up in time, because Mary was a week late, and with him came Caroline and her two children. "As long as your brother doesn't loot us out of house and home while we're gone, we should be fine," Caroline said as they stepped out of the carriage.

"I think Brian will do just fine."

"That's what I'm worried about."

Caroline would not leave her infants, and Bingley welcomed them both, saying that now that his children were nearing their first birthday it was starting to become eerily quiet at Kirkland. Of course, there was some shock at the lesser-informed of his guests about the children, who were not actually twins, and did not look a bit like they were, as tiny Frederick had hair unlike both his parents or his sister. At any questioning about the peculiar timing of the adoption, Doctor Maddox just shrugged. Though obviously happy to be back in her grand gowns, Caroline surprised the Kirkland crowd with her overwhelming affection for her infants, having taken to motherhood with unexpected vigor.

"It's positively endearing," Jane said to Lizzy when she came in. "And a little bizarre."

* * *

While not an abnormal occurrence, each day that Mary was late was of increasing tension, and it was even harder to corner her than it normally was.

When Elizabeth finally did, it was in Mary room, all set up with a cradle for the baby. Mary was staring out the window, fingering a beautiful locket that Elizabeth did not remember seeing before. "Mary? Are you all right?"

"I am fine."

"I meant it more generally." Elizabeth gasped. "Oh! I completely forgot! Miss Talbot says her regards. She says she very much wishes to visit when she returns from the Continent."

Mary turned around. "She does?"

"Yes, very much so. In fact, she was instrumental in locating Mr. Ferretti, so we owe her a great debt. Though, I will say, she was not a gossip. I did have to pry the information out of her." He joined Mary by the window. Since her pregnancy, Mary had been keeping her distance from everyone, shriveling away from contact. "She said there was genuine affection. And Mr. Ferretti did say he loved you, most truthfully, whatever the circumstances that resulted."

"I know," Mary said. "He wrote it in his letter, that Mr. Maddox delivered. And he was never once insincere, so I don't doubt it now."

"Did he give you the locket?"

"Yes. So the child will know its father, even if some things cannot be." Even though there was heaviness to her voice, it was not all sadness. "I love him, but it is not as though I cannot imagine life without him. I would be so desperately lonely for all of you in Italy, even if he quit the church. And he would be adrift here, as Grégoire is, even though he is half-English."

"Grégoire will not stay," Elizabeth said. "Darcy will find him a monastery to his liking in Ireland and he will leave us, but he will visit. But you're right, in that he is a blood relative with no other standing family, and so it is entirely different." She sighed. "Some people apparently do wish the contemplative life."

"Giovanni does not, but he will hardly be a monk, and he has obligations," she said.

"Mary, there are others out there. In fact, you will find many a man in England who has not promised his life to the Catholic Church."

"But this is not about me," Mary said. "Not entirely. I should not be so selfish." She stroked her stomach. "Nine months is so long, and I was so horrible with worry, and now I realize I have something to look forward to." She smiled. "Excuse me, Lizzy, but I must sit."

"Oh, yes," Elizabeth helped her into the armchair. She was surprised she had been standing that long. "Please."

"Did you fancy Rome?"

"It had its spectacles, but it was terribly hot, and of a rather bad stench in the late afternoon," Elizabeth said. "I would not want to spend more time there than I did. The food though was amazing. It is better to live outside, in a villa. Mary?" For she noticed her sister had gone pale. "Mary!"

"It – is probably not nothing. But please, I would appreciate Mama being in a different room from me when you tell her."

It was nearly two cruel days ahead for Mary, to the point where her health became a serious concern, and Doctor Maddox was called in to take a look. "I think the child is merely taking its time. Everything appears fine, Miss Bennet."

"_You useless_ – " and then Mary let loose a stream of Italian unknown in nature to the crowd of women that surrounded her, for Mrs. Maddox had opted out of being at her side, but from Doctor Maddox's reaction what she had said was not particularly polite, because he went red-faced out of the room and did not return.

He was correct in his estimation, for without any complications except the exhausting length of the labor, Mary delivered a healthy baby boy, who she immediately named Joseph, the allusion being obvious. Doctor Maddox insisted that she drink more than she was inclined and be washed, but made no other important medical notations.

With the lack of anyone else, Mr. Bennet knocked on the door and asked to see his grandson, and took the seat beside his daughter. Little Joseph Bennet wailed in his arms as he wiped his chin, and the room was emptied by Elizabeth of everyone but the mother, the grandfather, and she about to excuse herself, but she thought the look on her father's face was too memorable. He loved all of his grandchildren, but the look was positively radiant. Mary was partially asleep and could only have been minimally aware of anything, much less his gentle laughter and tears of joy as he held the boy he would raise in his own roof, the boy who would take his name, his legacy. Of all of the girls, only Mary had given that to him.

Elizabeth did excuse herself, but neither person notice, and she ran right to her room, and found Darcy inside, being dressed for the celebratory dinner. She gave his manservant a look and as he bowed himself away, and Elizabeth ran to her husband and hugged him, who was towering over her more than usual on his dressing stand. "Lizzy?"

"Nothing. I'm just – so happy. For Mary," she said. "And Papa."

"I must admit myself that my opinion of relations beyond marriage have been raised considerably over the last few months." Darcy said, and looking at his wife's expression, immediately added, "Ahem. The relations beyond marriage of _other_ people."

* * *

After Mary was out of danger, Mr. Bennet and Mr. Darcy made a trip to Town to settle all of the accounts, and Mr. Bennet went from there to open up Longbourn from his longest absence since the birth of Jane. There he found some of his servants had found other work, and together with his son-in-law saw about hiring new ones and fixing the roof. Mr. Bennet was in such a good mood that he even traveled back to Derbyshire to escort the family home that would be returning.

"You could do some renovations," Darcy suggested.

"Only if Mary requests. It is, after all, her money. Though, I doubt she nor I are equipped to deal with it."

"It should be properly invested," Darcy said. "I would be happy to offer the services of my steward, who is most trustworthy. In addition, the trust fund for Mr. Bennet – Mr. Joseph Bennet – will mature considerably in the seventeen years before he gains access to it. It may be as much as fifty thousand by then."

"Fifty thousand pounds," he said. "Plus Longbourn. All depending on whether Mary remarries, but she has already agreed to raise him as a Bennet despite the name of her future husband, should he ever exist."

"They will be waiting in line, once they hear of her inheritance, however gotten and whatever baggage it brings."

Mr. Bennet could not seem to fathom it all. He shook his head. "Mary merely does not seem the marrying type, or at least, is not willing to put herself on the market just yet, certainly. Maybe in a few years. My pressing concern is now Kitty, who herself is now a prize, to be honest, with ten thousand pounds. Perhaps I should buy her an apartment in Town. She and Georgiana do get along well."

"They do. And Mrs. Maddox's temperance has improved tremendously since her marriage."

To this, Mr. Bennet only smirked in reply.

When they returned to Kirkland, preparations were underway to somehow get all of the infants back to their homes, for anyone had had enough of newborn squealing, except perhaps Lydia, who had finally arrived to greet her new nephew. Joseph was christened in the same chapel as his cousins, as the vicar gave Grégoire a disapproving look for just existing in his bizarre medieval way of his.

After the brunch, Darcy and his brother excused themselves while Elizabeth was still absorbed in her new godson and nephew. They had something to do at Pemberley that concerned no one else.

* * *

"Is there something ... we should say? At this point?"

Darcy and Grégoire stood on that bright fall afternoon in front of the gravestone of Geoffrey Darcy, who had died on that very day, seven years before. In the graveyard behind Pemberley, no one would disturb them.

"I'm not a priest, and therefore cannot say a Mass," said Grégoire. "Nor do I have the implements to do so."

"He was ... a wonderful man."

"A loving father."

"An excellent gentlemen. In ... most respects. He did everything in his power to steer me correctly. And you are a hopeless cause anyway."

Grégoire smiled.

"And he did do what was in his power to ... bring us together." Darcy knelt beside the grave. "He taught me everything he knew. Except, how to deal with Mr. Wickham."

"No one told me I was invited."

They turned to the approaching figure, the person in question. Just getting off his horse, still in partial regimental uniforms, was George Wickham.

* * *

George Wickham did not consider himself a selfish man. By definition, it would imply that he thought only of himself, and he did not. There were many other people on his mind. Granted, he wasn't always handing out money to others, but he liked to interpret the word to mean he never thought of other people – which he did, quite a lot. For one, his wife was a talker, though he blamed Darcy for that one. Not for making her the country horse that she was, but for forever tying her to him in some kind of sadistic plan of revenge for some perceived slight. Sure, he had courted Darcy's later beau, but he had also been responsible for turning Darcy into the man he was, quite literally, in one night with a fancy lady in Cambridge. And he paid for that out of his own pocket! Never asked for it back! Ungrateful little brat!

All right, so he envied Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire. The most prim and proper of men, except when he was drunk, or locked in a room with a whore _while_ drunk, but honestly, most of the stories Wickham knew, he couldn't tell out of fear of self-incrimination. There was one dirty evening Darcy had after Wickham left Cambridge that he had heard of in passing, but never knew the full story, and the only one who knew it was Charles Bingley, the First Mate on the Darcy Ship, and stupidly, stupidly loyal. Emphasis on _stupid_. He would never get a word from him.

And since, upon becoming Master Darcy of Pemberley, Darcy had been the most upstanding and proper man to the point where Wickham wondered the precise height and width of the stick up his arse. He waited until he was eight and twenty to marry Elizabeth Bennet, a courtship behind it that had such traditional Darcy secrecy that not even that squealing, gossipy wife of his could account for it. Wickham had tried to learn the truth of it himself on the wedding day, only to be rewarded with his last remaining fine suit stained with cow droppings. Darcy would have nothing to do with him, and that was that.

But not everything on Wickham's end could be severed. While technically they were brothers-in-law, he was never permitted entrance to anywhere near Pemberley, even when his wife was, and she so rarely was that it was barely worth trying. And he did, he begrudgedly admitted to himself when he was drunk enough to do so, miss Pemberley. And it was not just the money practically dripping from its ancient walls, either. There had been the happiest years of his life, even after the death of his father, when Mr. Darcy had taken him in and treated him like a king. His son did not show the same kindness. Yes, he'd given him the worth of the living, but surely Darcy had enough intelligence to know he'd lose it all and be crawling back? Why couldn't he just shut up and beg his way back into Pemberley? The plan with Georgiana was a last resort. The plan with Mary King was a last resort of a ... last resort.

Maybe he should have taken the church living. It wasn't as if celibacy was expected of a vicar. But then, he would have to deliver boring sermons. Caught between a rock and a hard place. As if Darcy ever found himself in that position.

He was nibbling on that piece of gristle – and an actual piece of gristle – when a letter arrived from Lydia. She did love to gab, but sometimes it was for his benefit, especially when it involved the Darcys. And this time, it did. It seemed when Lydia had gone to Kirkland to see to the birth of her unmarried sister's bastard child (scandal enough, but not worth a penny in Newcastle), she had also been introduced to a monk who was Darcy's bastard brother. It seemed the senior Mr. Darcy, that they both regarded so highly, had had his own little extramarital dalliances. Perhaps that was why, Wickham pondered as he sped to Pemberley, Mr. Darcy had been gone enough to turn a blind eye to all of the maids he fired for mysteriously becoming "with child" as soon as Wickham learned of the bounty of feminine delights. The old fool was no fool, but he was apparently not practicing what he preached. Mr. Darcy would have made a terrible vicar, as well.

With that consolation, Wickham expertly bypassed the guards and the field workers. He would not be admitted to Pemberley itself. His only hope was to catch Darcy visiting his father's gave on the anniversary of his death. If not, at least he would visit the graves of his own parents, as the private graveyard also included the beloved Wickhams. He hadn't been bothered in years – in fact, he couldn't think of a time he'd seen the stones since the one for his father had gone on, and he'd never known his mother – but it seemed a good a time as any.

But, to his great luck, Darcy was there. He was not alone, but he was not flanked by guards, either. Beside him was a young man, barely more than a boy, in grey monk robes and sandals, his long string of beads hanging off his rope belt, his brown Darcy hair in a ridiculous tonsure. They were probably implemented to make the balding abbots feel better about their hair loss. But the familial resemblance was undeniable, especially when Darcy put his arm over his shoulders as they mourned their father, a rare gesture of affection which made it all the more affectionate. A pang of jealousy struck Wickham. When they were boys, they had been friends, even like brothers. Very young boys, before all the jealousy and rivalry set in. This stupid Papist missed all of the taunts and the spars and the rides and instead had the affection bestowed on him that Darcy probably did with Georgiana. He looked that age, too.

They had not noticed him, but his name showed up in their conversation, and he felt obligated to announce his presence, "No one told me I was invited."

Shock and alarm described Darcy's reaction as Wickham de-horsed and approached him.

"Darcy," Wickham bowed, and turned to the monk. "And I do not believe we have been introduced."

And he did believe, unless Darcy chose to lie outright, the scandal would be revealed now, in front of the grave of the man who had wrecked the family. Or, had potential to. Surely Darcy would put up a sum of money just to keep Wickham's mouth shut about a stain on the house of Pemberley.

By his estimations, it was a _great sum_ of money. And he intended to get every shilling of it.

...Next Chapter - The Darcy Brotherhood


	25. The Darcy Brotherhood

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Notes: I'm recovering slowly. Thank you for the comments. And for those interested, this story goes up to Chapter 28.

* * *

Chapter 25 – The Darcy Brotherhood 

Darcy looked at him with levels of barely-controlled rage. Wickham was more than familiar with this. While to everyone else Darcy was a mystery of a man, Wickham knew him better, and one of the surest things he knew was that the man knew how to keep grudges. When Darcy intruded on his absconding with Lydia, he was fairly sure (at the time) that it was more about getting his revenge for Georgiana and doing that white knight thing he loved so much to do. Only later that it had been more about maintaining Lydia's sister's social standing so Darcy could marry her, which was not a huge surprise, either. Darcy cared about social standing. He would pay a lot of money to protect a family's honor, an astronomical amount to protect his own. And here he was, cornered with proof of his own father's indiscretions in the form of a church mouse and all he could manage was a deeply-intoned, "_Wickham_."

"I suppose I'm not going to be introduced. Well, I don't know your name, kid, but Lieutenant George Wickham at your service." He bowed politely, taking off his regimental hat.

"Brother Grégoire," said the monk, bowing in innocent. "Grégoire Bellamont, sir."

"Bellamont? Wasn't that ... wasn't that the name of one of Mrs. Darcy's maids? From when we were young. Fitz?"

"Yes," Darcy growled. "And your attempts at civility are tiring. Yes, he is our half-brother." _Of course_, he was referring to himself and Georgiana, who was not present.

"At least I was trying. Live and let live? Forgive and forget? Isn't that one of your people's teaching, _Brother_ Grégoire?"

"Yes," said the monk. Or, more accurately, the pawn, overshadowed by the two much larger players with more moves. His accent was partially French. Darcy must have picked him up on the Continent like a souvenir, then brought him home because of some ridiculous honored notion that a son should see his father's grave or some such nonsense. "We are all poor sinners."

"Well, I only know two people here who are poor," Wickham said. "And it seems the Darcys are responsible for that."

"You are mistaken by his pious appearance," Darcy said. "Grégoire, unlike you, has not squandered his inheritance gambling."

"Inheritance?" Wickham laughed. "You call three thousand pounds to buy me off when your father passed away inheritance? Do you know long that lasted?"

"And the ten thousand to settle your gambling debts and provide you with a living in Newcastle. And the thousands father spent raising you, educating you, and sending you to Cambridge. At least you had the decency to flunk out in the first semester, since all you were going to do was – "

"Brother!" Grégoire interrupted, a looking passing between him and Darcy that Wickham could not, from his viewpoint, observe. So the monk was to be his advocate? He was going to make this even easier? "Tell him."

"Tell me what?" Wickham said, curious.

Darcy sighed, and it was not of annoyance. Wickham knew his frustrated sighs well enough. It was almost sadness. It crept into his voice when he spoke, more civilly this time, directly to Wickham. "It seems ... you are my half-brother as well."

George Wickham blinked. "Are you daft?"

"Surely your scheming mind can work your way around that one," was Darcy's reply, stepping closer to him, in front of his father's grave. "I admit father had me fooled, too, while he was alive. But why else would he raise you 'as his own son' and give you a living that you proved over and over again was undeserved? A living in the church, of all places! His last attempts to hope to reform you, even when it was beyond hope. How many maids did he have to dismiss? How far did you spread the Darcy seed around?"

To say that Wickham was flabbergasted was putting it mildly, but he knew that Darcy could be as tricky as he could. "You are a fool if you don't think I see your strategy. You are trying to draw me in to your own little family scandal so that I cannot ask for hush money, and you apparently would go as far as slandering my own father to do so."

"Despite my lack of desire to believe it, your father was, in fact, my father," Darcy said. "So the only person slandered here, beyond him, is your mother, who was married to Mr. Wickham at the time, which is a sin above father's own ... dalliances with his wife's lady-maid."

He was getting angry. Wickham was not at his best when he was angry. He didn't like being angry and not at his best, especially when he was trying to get money from people. He could not think of a way – no, he had one. If Darcy was to up the scale, so was he. They were alone. The setting was perfect. "Darcy, you have slandered both my parents to a point that is unsuitable, and as a gentleman – and you may laugh at the idea if you wish – I must defend their honor. I challenge you a duel."

Darcy gave him one of those perfectly clear 'You can't be serious?' looks of his and scoffed.

"I am serious," Wickham said. "Most serious."

"I cannot shoot a – brother."

Maybe Darcy really did believe it. Well, Darcy was a fool, or was playing some game beyond Wickham's own. "Then to first blood. I will be at the disadvantage, as you are better with the blade than I am, so accept my poor lieutenant's spare in place of your expert rapier. Just so you don't cut me to pieces immediately."

"You have two? On you?"

"Of course. I am, despite my own intentions, in His Majesty's service," Wickham said, returning to his horse to retrieve the blades.

"Darcy," he heard Gregory or whatever his fancy name was in the background. "You cannot fight on consecrated ground."

"It appears I do not have a choice. Wickham?"

But Wickham was a step ahead of him, literally. As he spun around, he carried two blades in one hand, his pistol in another, whereupon he fired and shot Darcy.

* * *

"My hand! You bastard, my hand!" Darcy fell to his knees, clutching his wounded right hand. Grégoire, ever his attendant, ran to his side and looked at the wound. 

"It has gone straight through," he said, removing his cowl and tearing off a piece of the linen to wind around Darcy's hand.

"You could not expect me to not even the playing field," Wickham said. "You are too good on your strong side for almost any man in England who is not some team captain."

"You bastard," Darcy groaned. "You ignorant, stupid son of a whore! And this time, I mean it literally!"

"You're not doing it correctly, you damned monk," Wickham said, approaching them. Grégoire did not put up much of a fight as he pushed him aside, pulled loose Darcy's cravat, and wrapped it tightly around the wound. The bullet had apparently gone right through his hand. "An excellent shot, if I do say so myself."

"You bastard," Darcy snarled as Wickham tightened the bandage and tied it off. "If I call for my servants – "

"They won't hear. And if you send your 'brother' for help, I'll shoot him. Now." He released Darcy's hand. "Let's establish the terms. Since I've already drawn first blood, we'll have to go for second. If I succeed, I want an apology and a proper living. How much does Gregory have?"

"Don't tell him," Darcy said to his brother, but Wickham merely cocked his pistol, and Grégoire looked terrified.

"Ten – t-ten thousand a year."

"_He_ gets ten thousand a year? What does he do? Did he buy his way into heaven or something?" Wickham said in disbelief. "Then, those are my terms. State yours."

"You have yourself declared dead and leave the British Isles, never to return."

"Self-imposed exile, yes? With a little death thrown in to free up Mrs. Wickham so she can properly remarry? Very noble of you. She may be a cow who squeals like a pig, but you know, she does have her positive qualities. I bet Elizabeth never went do – "

"_Wickham_," Darcy interrupted. "My sword."

"Then the terms are agreed?"

"Yes!" Darcy must have been aware that he was bleeding badly despite the bandages, and would lose energy with that, so time was on Wickham's side. "Grégoire, stay back, but if he tries to shoot you, I'll run him through. And Wickham, you would be shooting your own half-brother."

Wickham was indeed beginning to wonder if he was true. After all, Darcy would be the last person in the world to want to admit any relation whatsoever to him. Though as a bastard out of wedlock Wickham could never make a claim on Pemberley or any part of Darcy's various land holdings, he could reasonably demand more money than he was currently receiving from pay and from his wife's income. But that would mean his father had been hoodwinked, and that Mr. Darcy was one of the worst kinds of man. And then, it occurred to him, there was the matter of Georgiana. If he was half-Darcy, then he had almost - No, he was not ready for that yet.

There was an order to things.

* * *

Darcy knew he was at a loss. He could fight with his offhand; that much was true. But he was older now, and out of practice with his months of traveling, and he had been wounded on his left side not even a year before. And there was the small matter of his bleeding, throbbing right hand as a major distraction. Was he good enough now, in this state, to beat Wickham? The man was a military officer, even if he had never seen active duty. He must have trained. 

As he took the sword into his hand, he contemplated just giving in to the demands. They were outrageous, true, but no more than what Grégoire received, and surely some of it would go to support Lydia Wickham and her children, who were his niece and nephew on _both_ sides and were of his bloodline, at least by a quarter. They deserved not to live in poverty, even if Wickham did. But no – he had been challenged and his honor demanded that he defend himself for as long as he could stand. However, he doubted it would be very long. Slowly and carefully he adjusted his hand to the blade's unfamiliar hilt and took his stance. "I would shake on it, but it seems I am without a free hand." His voice came out tinnier than he would have liked. Perhaps he would not speak much.

"Brother, _please_," Grégoire pleaded with him by his good shoulder, which was once considered his bad shoulder. "Not in front of father, on holy ground."

"If your estimations are correct, Darcy, there is no one more deserving a witness," Wickham said, gesturing to the gravestone of Geoffrey Darcy.

"He is right, perhaps," Darcy said. "For once in his life. Stand back, Grégoire, and we shall finish it."

It was not quite their old childhood games. As they touched tips in some kind of gesture of respect, even though there was none, Darcy wished it was. Was it the blood-loss induced haze or were the memories of his younger days of playing with Wickham choosing to come back to him now for some nefarious purpose? This was not the way he wanted things to happen. True, he had been putting off planning a confrontation, but he could not think of a way for it to go more horribly wrong. And he had just jinxed himself by thinking that.

It was Wickham who struck first. He knew he would do that. Wickham did not have the patience or the intelligence to do otherwise. He thought he was a snake, lying and waiting for his prey, but though he did have many serpentile qualities, he was more like a charging boar of smugness and ferocity. He came at Darcy and it was an easy parry, but only because he knew Wickham. And he knew he would have to strike back, before the blows started falling light. Parry, parry, parry. "Damnit, hit me, Darcy! You know you want to run me through!"

Trying to incite him. Wickham was good at that, and Darcy had to admit that he was not in the best of moods to begin with, and would have to calculate that. He could not drone out his calls altogether, but the pounding in his ears was helping him out in that respect. His blood was up, and Wickham knew it, and the reverse. The 'second blood' they drew would not be a gentlemen's prick. Both men knew that; it did not have to be spoken. So he had to parry and parry on auditory and physical fronts. Deflect. Protect. Himself. Grégoire. Pemberley. Elizabeth. His son, his future child. Everything was at stake here, and he was not a gambler, not comfortable with those high stakes.

But Wickham was. He was brazen, continuously trying to draw Darcy out, continuously attacking to wear him down. Either strategy could easily work. But Darcy blocked. He blocked again and again until it became like a dance, like a dream. Wickham was darkness and he was light. He was truly the knight in shining armor. The Lady in the Water had given him a magic sword and he could pierce Wickham's black heart.

He was probably hallucinating. Loss of blood, of course. He squeezed his hand, but that just made the exit wound bleed that much worse. There were cries from Grégoire to stop, stop this madness, but he barely heard it. And then there was a blur in front of him, all grey robes as Wickham thrashed, pushing him back against another tombstone. Darcy fight comprehended that the blade would have gone to his heart, not a gentlemen's duel wound but a killing blow, and his arm may or may not have responded to the brain's call to parry. But that was irrelevant, because Grégoire had tackled Wickham, and they were rolling around on the ground. And then there was a gunshot, and the little monk slumped against the stone, trailing blood behind him. Had he been using the Discipline again? No, he took that away. And he was having the conversation again with Grégoire.

"I will personally pay for the abbey to acquire a new one if they press me on it," he had said, was saying again, at least in his mind.

No, better to imagine he was back at Cambridge, fighting a match against a worthy opponent. That he could understand. His opponent, not properly guarded and masked, was picking himself off the ground. He was open. He knew, within the lines, he could not drop his guard. He had violated the rules. There would be punishment, and Darcy would deliver it.

Darcy's blade went right through Wickham's uniform, then his flesh, then his organs and bones. He could feel it. Darcy could hear it and feel the tip break through the other side, as if an extension of his own hand, his off hand but still his hand.

"F-First - first blood," Darcy stammered as Wickham, still standing because he was probably in shock, pulled back his weapon, out the same way it had come with a burst of cherry-red blood. "Second, technically."

But hatred would not die so easily. Wickham raised his pistol, but Darcy dropped his sword and with both hands – and very painfully – managed to lift it so the shot went off into the sky, leaving only a small ball of smoke to cover their faces with gunshot powder. Wounded, angry, and flailing, Wickham tackled him and bashed him in the lower back with his sword hilt, unfortunately made of steel. Both men went over together, and rolled to the grass, where they managed to separate.

It felt immeasurably good to be off his feet, even if he could barely breathe, and his back was still figuring out which nerves to activate, and his arm was still bleeding. Beside him, beyond the pounding in his ears, he heard Wickham's ragged breaths as he tore apart his jacket and shirt, soaking his hands in blood in the process.

And then, there was silence, except for the sounds of Derbyshire on a pleasant fall afternoon, when the leaves were at their best color, and the birds were chirping their last before heading south for the winter.

"Darcy?"

"Hmm?"

"You ... you meant what you said."

It took him a bit of gathering of strength to respond. "I don't ... properly remember everything I might ... have said. Remind me."

"We are brothers."

"So it seems." He picked his head up just a bit – a painful endeavor – to see Grégoire still slumped against the tombstone, his eyes closed but obvious breathing. He looked the other way, to Wickham covered in his own blood, and craned his eyes above. They were, appropriately, in front of his mother and father's stones.

"Then we are ... terrible at it."

"... At what?"

"Being brothers."

"So it seems." His brain wasn't honestly processing a lot. He was resting in a pool of agony, but the resting part was wonderful. "Cain and Abel."

"Unless we ... both die."

"Cain never died."

"Yes he did."

"No he didn't."

"Did."

"Didn't."

Darcy, despite it, found himself laughing. And he found Wickham joining him, until they were both too exhausted from the process. It did not take very long, and then they were quite again.

"I love Elizabeth," Darcy said. "I want those to be ... my last words."

"I love ... uhm ..."

"... Money? ... Gambling? ... F-Fratricide?"

"My ... best qualities."

It was getting late. It was still early in the afternoon, but it felt so very, very late.

"I didn't ... mean for – I just wanted money ... Darcy."

"...I know."

"I didn't – kill Gregory ... did I?"

"Grégoire."

"Whatever."

"No ... I don't know ... I can't – get up."

He heard George slowly rise to his feet. It was a concentrated effort, and when he stood, it was hunched over, one hand desperately clutching the wound in his chest as he towered over Darcy. "If I don't make it ... I'm sorry about Georgiana," he stopped to grunt, as if his very insides were shifting around in him. "I didn't know."

"I didn't either," he said. "Make it?"

"Get ... some help." He tried to straighten up, but failed. "Agh!" But he did make it his horse, where he leaned on it, and tugged weakly on the stirrups. Finally he was able to climb on top of it. Darcy saw little more than a shadow. He was seeing little more than shadows and darkness now. "Darcy."

"George."

As the shuffling off the hooves of the beast disappeared into the distance, Darcy sighed, and let the last of his strength flow out of him.

...Next Chapter – Requiem


	26. Requiem

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

* * *

Chapter 26 – Requiem 

It was late in the day now, and Elizabeth Darcy realized she and Georgiana needed to be home for dinner, but first she had to find her son. This of course was no easy task. The Bingley twins were crawling now, and she had to step over them very carefully to find her son somehow on top of a very large bookcase. "I don't even want to know. Come to mother."

Geoffrey eagerly obeyed, though she was glad to put him down when she had him safely out of danger. "Now don't step on your cousins. Really, someone should be watching them."

But he was distracted enough by the entrance of Georgiana Bingley, who ran up to him and whispered something in his ear.

"Coming!" said Bingley, either having heard Elizabeth or following his fatherly instincts. "Eliza! Charles!" He picked his daughter up and handed her off to her namesake for the sake of convenience, and then scooped up his son. "No! What did I say about breaking out of your cradle?"

"Breaking out?"

"It's practically a prison in there now, with all the walls we've had to put up." He said. "Geoffrey, what is it?"

Elizabeth looked down and noticed her son was tugging at her skirt tails. "What? What is it?"

"Georgie wants to tell you something."

"Well, she can very well tell me herself. I am her aunt."

"But it's our secret. No one else saw it."

"Georgiana?" Bingley looked at his daughter. "What is it?"

"I was going to tell Geoffrey," his eldest daughter said. "But then I thought someone else should know. There's a red horse on the road."

"A red horse?"

"Well, it's a horse, and it's all red."

Elizabeth and Bingley exchanged glances. "Can you tell us where you saw it?"

"I can show you."

"See, just delayed," he said, referring to her speech. "Okay, you're both very good children for telling us. Let's go." He handed his son off to Nurse, who had finally appeared behind him, and Elizabeth dropped her niece off as well before they followed Georgie through the hallway and out the front doors of Kirkland, where she took off in a full run, Geoffrey keeping pace with her.

It was not far down the road that they saw it. It was indeed a horse, shuffling aimlessly about, masterless and not tied to anything. Its saddle and back were covered in blood, obviously not its own.

"Regimentals," Elizabeth said, looking at the markings on the saddle.

"Wickham," Bingley guessed. "He was here two months before. I recognize it."

"Lydia is inside."

"I mean Mr. Wickham. Yes, he was invited, and it's a long story. But – where is Wickham?" He turned to his daughter. "Go back to the house and tell the servants to get Doctor Maddox here at once. And take Geoffrey."

"But I want to see!" wailed Geoffrey.

"Go with her," Elizabeth said in the sternest possible voice, which was quite stern. "_Now_!"

By the time they were off, Bingley had already found the trail of blood. It led down the road some more, towards Pemberley, and they ran to follow it until it curved off the road. There was the obvious spot where the rider had fallen off, and then a smaller train leading into the tall grass. There, resting in the foliage, was a wounded George Wickham. Bingley stepped forward first, and turned him over, which did not rouse him into consciousness. There was a pistol in his belt, but Bingley took it, and smelled it. "It's been fired."

"Oh G-d. Darcy!"

"I know." Fortunately, people were arriving, and he slapped Wickham until he woke. "Where's Darcy?"

"Darcy ... what?"

Elizabeth took the pistol from Bingley's hand and cocked it at Wickham's head, so that there could be no mistake about her intentions. "Where is Mr. Darcy, Wickham?"

"Oh." He put a bloodied hand to his head. "Yard. Graveyard. G-d, I hope ... I haven't killed him."

Bingley had to actually hold Elizabeth back from physically attacking him as Maddox arrived, with Jane and servants. He knelt beside the patient with his bag and pulled open the shirt, but Wickham angrily tore him away. "Get going, you four-eyed son of a whore!"

"You need medical attention, Mr. Wickham," Maddox said sternly.

"I'm not here for me! I didn't ... come all this way ... I'm regimental, I know wounds. Forget me and find Darcy and his pet monk before they both die!" He cried out, as if something inside was bothering him, and turned over to hack blood into the grass.

"Doctor," Bingley said. "He's telling you to go." He turned to a servant. "Horses! We need horses! And a carriage for Elizabeth! Now, man!"

"George!" It seemed that Lydia Wickham had finally caught up with them. "Doctor Maddox – "

"Let the doctor ... go about ... his business," Wickham coughed. "I'm no loss to you, anyway."

It was only three miles to Pemberley. They left Wickham with his wife and the many servants of Kirkland to help him back to the house, but he would not be carried inside. A strange sense of dignity presided over him as he asked to see Georgiana Darcy, and with Mr. Bennet giving him a stern glance, she was brought forth, having been unaware of the proceedings so far. "Mr. Wickham!"

"Georgiana!" he reached out, but his hands were unable to catch anything. He had lost all coordination. "I'm so ... I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I wouldn't have ... I did love you, but not ... Thank G-d, not as a woman. Just a little girl, that I loved." She finally offered him her hand, and he kissed it. "Sister."

"Darcy isn't here to say it, so I shall," Mr. Bennet said. "Don't bother this poor woman any longer."

"I'm not ... I wasn't told ...," he closed his eyes, and then opened them again. "All this time ... I was a Darcy. I should have," he leaned over, and coughed on the ground before straightening up again, leaning on the front steps. "I should have acted ... like one. Forgive me." He swallowed. "Please forgive me."

"I – forgive you," Georgiana was confused, but not dumb. She already had one bastard brother, so a second was not terribly hard to imagine. And he seemed so sincere. "George."

He smiled. "Go to your brother ... the one who acted like one."

With Bennet's nod of approval, she called for a carriage and was off to Pemberley, but not before granted Wickham a kiss on his forehead. As she disappeared down the road, he slumped further onto the steps, and refused offers to be carried in.

"George," Lydia said, the only one now at his side, at least closely. "What have you been up to?"

"Terrible ... unforgivable things. But ... I have been forgiven ... by the most wounded person of all." His grim smile faded, and he leaned into his wife, and in her embrace, George Wickham died.

* * *

Darcy's first impression back in reality was the uncomfortable notion of being wet. Cold and wet. Where was his manservant and his properly heated bath? 

But it did the job of waking him admirably.

"Darcy," Elizabeth said desperately, wiping his face. "Can you hear me?"

The ground which he had once found so comfortable was now hard and uninviting, yet he could find the strength to move. In fact, he could barely open his eyes and focus on the two figures in front of his face, the sky behind them. One was his lovely Elizabeth, the other was easily recognizably spectacled face of Doctor Maddox.

"Mr. Darcy," he said, "if you can, I need to you to lift up your arms and your legs. It does not have to be all at once or very much, but I need to see you move before we attempt to get you on a cot. Do you understand?"

He did try desperately to say yes, but it came out incomprehensibly, between his ability to speak and his parched throat. But he did succeed in barely lifting his limbs, which was apparently enough for the doctor to have him moved. Elizabeth kept whispering things to him, what he heard seemed to pass out of him. Only when he was back on a bed in Pemberley, and properly given food and drink, did he become a bit aware of the pain, specifically when Maddox unwound the blood-soaked bandage around his hand. "Ow!"

"You're going to need stitches, but I think I can save the hand," the doctor said, turning it over and looking at the still-bleeding exit wound. "The bottle, please. On your left."

Someone, somewhere, was helping him. Were they asking Darcy questions? He wasn't entirely aware, so he finally managed to ask his own after mouthful of horribly-tasting medicine. "My brother – "

"Grégoire is patched and will be sewn shortly, but he is comatose."

"He was – he was shot," Darcy said.

"Then it didn't hit. You might have heard a shot, but his injury is head trauma from landing against a tombstone."

"Will he wake?"

"I don't know, Mr. Darcy. Now, take some deep breaths, and try to relax."

Relax? Yes, he could manage that. After all, wasn't he dead and this was purgatory?

* * *

It was late in the night when Maddox was finished when both of his patients. Aside from the servants, no one bothered him. Elizabeth held Darcy's other hand, but he was largely unresponsive, and what details they managed to gleam from him of the events that occurred earlier in the day were contradictory. The real story, obviously, would not come forth until someone recovered. 

Around midnight, a sobbing Georgiana Darcy and a teary Lydia Wickham arrived with the news that Wickham had passed on to the next world, and that arrangements were being made, but there was some question as to where he would be buried.

"Elizabeth," Georgiana said. "You can decide this as Mistress of Pemberley."

"If it can possibly wait until Darcy wakes and we have the whole story, or he can make the decision himself, then it will," she announced, and everyone heeded her decision.

"Why didn't someone _tell me_?" Georgiana said, giving no explanation as to what she was alluding to. It was too obvious.

"Because – because Darcy was waiting for the right time."

"And he thought _this_ was the right time?"

Elizabeth, exhausted from a long night of worry, could only manage, "Your brother is not perfect, Georgiana. Do you wish to hear the latest from the doctor? Because I do."

A tired Maddox was taking tea in the sitting room. He rose and bowed to the Darcys. "Mrs. Darcy. Miss Darcy."

"Doctor, pleased don't stress yourself. How are they?"

"I can't quite decide who is the more complicated case," Maddox said. Elizabeth noticed that his usually steady surgeon's hands were shaking as he held the tea cup. "The Brother Grégoire – excuse me, this is going to be graphic, if you want the whole of it."

Elizabeth gave Georgiana a nod, who replied with obvious frustration, "I am sick of being left out of everything! To think, this could have all been prevented in the first place if Darcy had said where he was going, or who Wickham was, or we had been told by Papa ..." she broke off. "I want to know everything. Please, doctor."

Maddox swallowed and continued. "Brother Grégoire is comatose."

"What does that mean?" she asked eagerly.

"It means he is asleep and cannot wake up, to put it very simply. I can keep shooting him with water, but if he does not wake in a few weeks, he will waste away. Not that he was ... healthy to begin with."

"I know," Elizabeth said, hoping to spare Georgiana from at least that. Maddox, in his inspection, must have seen what Darcy said in France were extensive scars down the monk's back. "Please go on."

"The coma is a result of head trauma. Beyond that, there is not much I can say. As for Mr. Darcy ...," he took another sip and put the cup away. "The hand is not connected to a lot of major organs, and if it becomes infected, he can afford to lose it, as horrible as that would be. But if he escapes infection, he may not fully be able to use the hand again. I tried to do what I could, but so many of the nerves had been cut by the bullet – " He sighed. "There is also the matter of his back."

"His back?"

"He must have been struck, because he is bruised extensively there, and has complained of pain in his gut in moments of lucidity. If he has internal injuries, the symptoms will surface in the next few days and drastic measures may have to be taken."

"Drastic measures?"

"With your permission, Mrs. Darcy, if Mr. Darcy is not significantly better by this time tomorrow, or is even worse, I want to call for the chief of surgery at Cambridge."

Elizabeth nodded numbly. Maybe it was the late hour, but she could think of no other response.

* * *

The funeral of George Wickham took place two days hence, when his children could be retrieved from Newcastle. Darcy was awake, but still not himself. He was feverish and his mind dulled by pain, but the story they managed to gather from the scattered details in his brain was eventually sorted out. The fight, the revelation, the duel. Things flying out of control, and all as the tombstone of their collective father watched on. 

Jane was shocked that two brothers had unintentionally married two sisters, whereas Bingley shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. A few days before, many of them would have been openly or secretly glad to see Wickham gone. Even now, the fact that Darcy and Grégoire's lives still hung on a thread did not endear them to him, but he had to some degree given his life so that they might be discovered in time, and that in of itself was commendable. Even Elizabeth felt a few tears as she the priest said the final blessings and the coffin was lowered into the ground.

She turned to her husband, patting him on the shoulder. Darcy had to be carried to the funeral in an armchair, and said nothing and at times many very well have been unconscious or asleep during the brief ceremony. His request was, of course, honored. He was Master of Pemberley, and he could bury people where he damned well pleased. And so, instead of next to the Wickhams in their private corner of steward section of the cemetery, George Wickham was buried beside his father, Geoffrey Darcy. He retained in death only the last name he used in life, marked on his grave, as the stone was still under preparation. In a moment of silence, they all fell under the spell of wondering the mixed legacy of George Wickham-Darcy.

"_Réquiem æternam dona ei, Dómine_."

Dozens of eyes turned to the site of Grégoire Darcy shambling up the hill to the grave. His head bandaged, and clad in the white bed robes that he had been dressed in by the servants, the dazed monk crossed himself. "_Et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace.. Amen_." _(1)_

"Amen," said Darcy, and crossed himself.

Next Chapter – Sympathy for the Devil

* * *

_(1) Latin: "Eternal rest grant unto him , O Lord. And let perpetual light shune upon him. May he rest in peace."_


	27. Sympathy for the Devil

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Note: The next chapter will be a significant epilogue, along with fun historical facts (last chance to look up the name Giovanni Ferretti) and news about possible sequels. It may not be posted until after Rosh Hoshanah on Sunday.

* * *

Chapter 27 – Sympathy for the Devil 

The very next day, Doctor Lucas, _Professor Emeritus_ of King's College, arrived in Derbyshire. Darcy's health had not returned. Though his hand was healing, the pains in his body would not relent. He had trouble taking food, and sleep was nearly impossible. He was, however, still Darcy, who was a man who was affronted when anyone, even his doctor, stormed into his room with a chamber pot. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"As your physician, Mr. Darcy, I must know all of your – proper functions." He did not have to say that the chamber pot, which had just been carried out by the manservant, was filled with blood.

"Do you know ... all of the Prince's ... proper functions?"

"I know his every venereal disease, yes."

Darcy blinked.

"Now, will you please tell me: Is blood coming from anywhere else on your body?"

"No."

"You are including _everything_?"

"_Yes_." Darcy, at least for the moment, seemed to have his senses about him. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I am trying to ... conjecture if an organ has failed."

"And if it has?"

Doctor Maddox passed the pot off and did not respond as he washed his hands. "I need to see the spot again."

Darcy groaned and turned on his side so the doctor could not have a look at the bruise on his back. Not his only one, but the largest, so much so that he had circled it, like a butcher preparing to carve up meat. "So it is that horrible?"

"I have to ask you this question, Mr. Darcy – Are all of your affairs in order?"

"That horrible. Yes. What could would I – ow, stop it! – would I be if I had left for the Continent without doing so?"

"I'm not even touching you!"

"Well, it feels as though you are!"

Maddox was used to stubborn patients, but usually he was able to deal with it by assuming it was derived from their medical trials and not their personality. With Darcy, he could not make that assumption. "Do you feel a stabbing pain on your side? Here?"

"Yes! Now by G-d, do something about it!"

"Darcy," he said softly. "I am afraid to kill you."

"I would prefer your knife to a slow death, Maddox."

Doctor Maddox was too flustered to respond.

* * *

It was decided. The specifics of the surgery were not explained in full by either Maddox or his former professor, and Mr. Bennet said in private to Bingley that he doubted either of them knew precisely what they intended to do. It was a matter of whether Darcy's insides were fixable or not, and that they could not see from the outside. The surgery would be in the morning, it was announced. A pale of gloom feel over Pemberley, though everyone tried to keep a cheery face for Darcy himself, who managed with his very small bits of strength to give them annoyed looks at their intentions. Fitzwilliam Darcy would not be fooled. He spent a long talking to Bingley with his steward present, and there could be no doubt as to what they were discussing. 

Darcy insisted, despite advice otherwise, to see the others at least sitting up in a chair beside his bed. His son was sat in his lap. "Are you going to die?" But even with Geoffrey's regularly lack of tact, his voice was outright terrified.

"Hopefully not," he said, playing with Geoffrey's hair. "Ow, don't hug so hard. Please, for father."

"Am I supposed to be Master Darcy now?"

"No. When you're much, much older and I'm a doddering old fool."

"Was Mr. Wicked really my uncle?"

"Mr. _Wickham_. And yes, he was."

"Then why did you hate him?"

Elizabeth must have seen the look on Darcy's face, the way he slumped in his chair, because she came rushing. "Geoffrey, don't. Your father has been through a lot with Wickham. I'll tell you when you're older. Now, don't wear your father out."

"Yes," Darcy said. "You'd best get ready for bed. Then you can come in and say good night."

"Okay." Geoffrey kissed his father on the cheek, and then scrambled off, to be escorted off by Nurse.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Elizabeth tried to maintain her composure. "I assume Bingley will be responsible for Geoffrey's welfare if anything happens to me?"

"Yes. I apologize for passing over your father."

"It could hardly be expected of you. Bingley is younger, better with money, and in Derbyshire."

Georgiana wanted a private audience. She hugged her brother and between sobs managed to say, "I'm so sorry."

"For what? You've done nothing wrong in your life."

"For tearing you and Wickham apart."

"Georgiana," he said, "those seeds were planted before you were born. You were merely a link in the chain. And if anything, you have broken it."

She smiled wanly.

Grégoire was next. He bowed to his sister and took his seat. He looked a bit ridiculous, with the bandages wrapped around his head, but no more ridiculous than his normal hairstyle, Darcy supposed. Maybe now it would have to grow out. "Do you have any sins you wish to confess?"

"May I remind you that your poor brother is a believer in the Church of England?"

"That does not make my question invalid."

Darcy considered. "All right. But – we don't exactly have a booth here."

"I suppose – we could put up the dressing screen from Elizabeth's room."

"How did you know Elizabeth has a screen in her quarters?"

"I – I just _assumed_ – "

Darcy admitted, he liked watching Grégoire blush. "Just have them bring it."

The screen was set up as a make-shift confessional barrier, and Grégoire took a seat on the other side. "I should point out that I am not, technically, a priest."

"And I should point out that I am not, technically, a Papist."

"Very well." Grégoire cleared his throat. "Do you have any sins to confess?"

"What if I am a perfect man?"

"There is the sin of pride."

"Very funny. Uhm ... should I begin at the beginning? It will take an awful long time if I cover everything _you_ consider a sin."

"What do you consider a sin, Mr. Darcy?"

Darcy sighed and shifted on the bed, which did nothing to lessen his pain. "When I was a boy, I was very rowdy. Very disrespectful to my elders. And Wickham ... we got into terrible trouble. Well, not so terrible. Boyhood pranks and the like." He smiled. "I can remember some good times."

"So you did care for him."

"Yes, at times. It just – became more vicious. As we grew older. We fought." He laughed, but it was more of a cough. "And by Cambridge, I had given up on him. I could not follow his lead. Oh, and while this is confessional, I should mention I slept with a prostitute after he paid for her services so I would ... enter into manhood. Which you should try, some time, by the way."

"I am just your confessor now, Mr. Darcy."

"You don't know what you are missing," he said. "So ... when Wickham was gone, when he flunked out, I was lost. I descended into the same debauchery he so enjoyed, only I was more subtle about it. And then I met Charles, my last year, and desired to keep him away from the path I and Wickham had strayed. But I was not always a good friend to him."

"How?"

"I misled him. About Jane, when she was just Miss Bennet. I drove them apart."

"But they did find each other again, not of your own design. And they are very happy."

"Actually, I apologized to Bingley and pointed him back to her."

"So you have repented thoroughly. Hardly a terrible friend."

"And ... I was cruel to Elizabeth. My first proposal was most insulting."

"Proposal?"

"For _marriage_, monk. The thing normal people do."

"Respect for the church is also an important virtue."

"Depends on the church. So ... and then there was that night – but I can't tell that story."

"If it was a sin, you must."

"Well, we didn't _really_ ... I don't remember what we did after the third bottle. But ... enough. So there was my father."

"Yes. What of him?"

"I fought with him, at the end, over Wickham. Now, looking back, how much it must have pained him that I wanted to disown my own brother."

Grégoire said merely, "He did not tell you; therefore, you could not have known. While you were I suppose disrespectful in some fashion, you did not dishonor him in that. Did you not model your life after him? Did you not listen to his wisdom?"

"I have tried ... every day of my life. With the one exception that I have been loyal to my wife since the day I first saw her eyes across a ballroom."

"But yet, you cannot forgive father."

"No. Is that a sin?"

"Forgiveness is a virtue, hatred a sin."

"I don't _hate_ him. I just – do not comprehend his actions. He was so virtuous, and yet did such great sin."

"We cannot all be saints, Mr. Darcy."

"Are you asking me forgive father?"

"I am not asking. But I think it would bring you comfort to begin to let the last be the past."

"Yes, the past." Darcy frowned. "And there is the matter that I killed my own brother."

"Did you not do it to save my life? And your own?"

"That does not change the fact."

"And so it seems there are two people you must forgive, if you are to find peace," Grégoire said. "At this point I would say, 'my son,' but that feels odd."

"Indeed."

"You have lived, by all accounts, a virtuous life. A good gentleman, a father, a husband, a friend, a son. The amount of family that surrounds you even now is ... overwhelming. They have forgiven you, if they ever thought you were in the wrong in the first place for your actions with George. Now you must forgive yourself. You cannot take this self-torture with you now."

"And you are the expert on self-torture," Darcy said.

"I will not dignify that with an answer. Darcy, you know what I mean. I am told George died begging forgiveness. For you, from your family, it has already been granted, and G-d grants it now, but only if you forgive yourself."

"That ... that you cannot ask from me."

"I am perfectly capable of asking. Your reply is up to you."

* * *

Neither master or mistress got much sleep that night. Darcy, because he was in such pain, and Elizabeth, because it was hard to sleep while clutching him so tightly and yet sill trying not to hurt him. "For the record," she sobbed, "if you die, I will kill you." 

"I must point out that that is technically impossible."

"Then I will have your tombstone signed with that awful nickname where Fitzwilliam should be."

"Then I will have to do my best not to die, then," he said, but could not, despite it, lighten the mood.

In the morning everyone was up bright and early, as Darcy was brought down and a lot of kisses and well-wishes were given, and he kissed his wife before she was ushered out of the room. Despite her protests, both surgeons were quite insistent that she no one else but attendants would be admitted, and Darcy was made to sit on a table. "A table?"

"Yes," Doctor Maddox said, wearing his smock and holding up a glass. "Drink."

"My G-d. How many doses is that?"

"As much as I think I could give you. I will not lie to you, Mr. Darcy. This is going to be excruciating."

"Terrific." Darcy lifted the glass. "Good luck, doctor."

"Good luck, Mr. Darcy."

* * *

Darcy did not truly fall asleep. He was familiar with the feeling of drifting into an opius haze. The pain did not leave him, at times could be intense, but it was distant, and he wasn't sure it was real. He felt between worlds, not literally. Some part of his brain knew it was all the power of opium combined with massive blood loss. 

"So logical."

Darcy sat down next to Wickham. The fire in front of them was roaring. He had a special affection for the ancient fireplace in their shared dormitory at King's College. It was older than Pemberley, dating probably to the foundations of the college, and it had a very medieval feel, but yet for all of its history still kept them warm in the cold winter months at the beginning of the spring term. The armchairs had been restored many times, and with two young hounds, given to him by his father for Christmas, nipping at his shoes, his regular homesickness was somewhat abated.

"Excuse me for adhering to reason," Darcy said. Sitting back did not relieve or affect the quite literal stabbing pain in his back.

"Lower, Daniel," said Doctor Lucas. "Careful."

"What?" said Wickham.

"Nothing," said Darcy.

"Oh. Whiskey? Single malt."

"Anything decent?"

"I have standards, Darcy. They might not be as high as yours, but trust me when I say, this is a fine Scotch. Have a glass."

Darcy picked up his glass and allowed Wickham to pour him a glass. It tasted tasteless and very fine at the same time.

"You know what it reminds me of? Guess."

"I prefer not to think about what occurs in your mind, Wickham."

"You think me more perverse than I actually am. Which means you must think me a regular Nero."

"Have you actually been studying your books? Can you actually _read_?"

Wickham ignored the question. "Loch Lomond. Remember, when father took us to Scotland?"

"Oh, no. I had a terrible fever and did not go. You went with father and Mr. Wickham. And that must have been ... Georgiana was not born."

"No, I don't believe so. Father let me have just a bit of whiskey, at the distillery."

"Which father?"

Wickham just laughed. His face was lit up from the fire, and when he smiled, he did have the appearance of being charming. He had perfected it over the years; Darcy was outright jealous of his social ease. The future master of Pemberley could barely manage a grin in public, and only when he had overheard a snippy remark.

"All right, try this. New year's. We were – eight or so."

"Oh G-d! Was it _that_ New Year's? The one where you convinced me to stay up past our bedtimes and drink half a bottle?"

"It was more than half, and it was your idea."

"Certainly not!"

"Remember, this was before you had your manservant insert that stick up your arse, and were actually a bit of fun."

Darcy, despite himself, chuckled. "Ah, yes. And we suffered for it."

"And we had to hide it from Nurse – "

"She thought us ill for having terrible headaches. We had to stop her bringing a doctor in."

"Ha! That was hilarious!" but he was cut off by a moan he could not prevent.

"Is it terrible?"

"I am told I have only a small chance of surviving."

"Then you'd best drink up."

Darcy did not contradict him, no matter how unsubstantially the alcohol affected him. "Why are you being so kind to me?"

"We are brothers, are we not?"

Darcy, again, could not contradict him.

"And then, were we not always, however unintentionally?"

"We were certainly terrible at it."

"Sibling rivalry is a long-standing tradition in almost any family. Especially one where the cards are so stacked against one." Wickham circled the glass with his hand and took a sip. "Though, I suppose, now that I think about it in hindsight, I would have made an awful Master of Pemberley."

"On this I can feel I can soundly agree."

"I would have despised all of that responsibility. And I would have trysted with the maids after marrying some girl who was pretty and only after me for her money, instead of your sensible marrying of Elizabeth Bennet. Thereby creating the same crisis that we had to all endure, even the little monk."

"His name is Grégoire."

"So French."

"His mother was."

"Ah, yes. But I imagine I would have left so many that we could have had a proper battle instead of a duel. With tactics and everything. Two armies of bastard sons."

Despite it, Darcy had to chuckle.

"G-d, Darcy, you are positively – well, I might say, pleasant when you're positively doped. Perhaps you should consider a more constant habit."

"That stick is still there, Wickham. Or I suppose I should say, _George_." He stared down into his glass, finding it hard to focus his eyes. "Father always wanted me to call you that."

"And father always wanted me to call you Fitzwilliam."

"You opted instead for insulting nicknames. In front of women, too."

"You know my mouth hurt for weeks afterwards from that? That was the last time I ever got between you and a girl with pretty eyes – Oh, I am wrong. But the second time, you defeated me soundly without even punching out one of my teeth, so an improvement on both sides. And you got to keep the woman."

"As I am currently in the most pain I have ever been in, and am quite sure you are merely a side effect of its hallucinationary effects, my heart does not go out to you."

"My heart _is_ out. I think I left it on the road somewhere."

"Thank you for that lovely image, Wickham."

"We could have gotten along quite well, don't you think?"

"What, if you were not a gambler and a promiscuous man to steal the honor of what I must assume is an endless amount of ladies, and I were not a proper gentlemen with no patience for such improprieties?"

"If I loosened up less and you loosened up more, perhaps, we would be at least bearable to each other. And do not hide for a moment behind this 'proper gentleman' business!"

"Are you implying I am not?"

"I think I see it," Maddox's voice came in, booming in the room, though Wickham didn't hear it, and continued undisturbed.

"You are a gentleman. I will not deny it. But you take it to extremes because you are ... disabled."

"Disabled?"

"You are afraid of people, Darcy."

"I am not afraid of anything!"

"Perhaps a better word," Wickham said. Darcy had forgotten that he could display a high degree of intelligence. But he was, after all, the son of Geoffrey Darcy. "Uncomfortable."

"What do you mean?"

"People that you do not know. People that you do know, but lack the means to play that social dance, and I do not mean a literal dance, as you are quite accomplished in that respect despite your lack of practice."

"I think I've just been insulted and complimented in the same breath."

"It was not so much an insult. I was not saying you are stupid, or mentally ill, but behind all of that propriety and that stiff posture is a real man, waiting to get out. Or perhaps, you show him to Elizabeth. She is then a very lucky woman, because you can be quite pleasant if you wish to be. Even likeable."

"So," Darcy said. "We have a man with no scruples but excellent social abilities, and the very opposite. And one killed the other."

"And it has not been established if I did not return the favor quite yet. It depends on your brother-in-law. You could not find a doctor with proper eyes?"

"He has an excellent record and have saved my life before."

"I can't quite decide if that was if that is good or bad for me. I did not mean to kill you, Darcy."

Darcy sighed. "I cannot honestly say the same thing."

"If I had not attacked Gregory – "

"Still." He shook his head. That, he could manage to do. "My hatred was too deep for me to forgive, even when considering one of them was made by accident. Had you approached Georgiana more formally-"

" – Mrs. Reynolds would have said something." George Wickham, of course, did not have this information. Or maybe he did; Darcy didn't question it. "And while it would have changed our lives, it would have prevented the intended marriage, certainly." He said in a softer voice, one that actually sounded concerned, "You know I never compromised her. Or even came close. I never laid a hand on her, except to escort her around Brighton."

"I know."

"But that does not unburden me – even with her forgiveness. Something things cannot be forgiven, however unintentional."

"Or perhaps they can," Darcy said. "You said she did."

"Yes."

"Then I must follow in her lead," Darcy said. He raised his glass so he did not have to say it. "I feel as if ... a terrible burden is off my shoulders."

"Maybe they amputated them while we sat here in front of this pleasant little fire."

"Be serious."

"See, we are opposites. Like you and Bingley, only he meets your stringent requirements of virtue. But otherwise, we are partners in a strange friendship."

Darcy raised his glass. "To brothers."

"To brothers. And brothers must forgive and forget. Both of us."

"Even for the most heinous of crimes?"

"As we both fall into that category, with attempted incest and fratricide, we must overlook them if we are to forgive each other at all."

"Done, then."

They clinked glasses, which shattered, along with his world.

* * *

It was nearly nightfall when the doctors, their bloodied smocks hastily removed, with blood still staining their undershirts, emerged from the room and soundly shut the door behind it. Doctor Lucas cleared his throat, apparently an indication for his student to address the crowd, knowing them better. 

Maddox swallowed, realizing suddenly how tired he was. "Baring infection, Mr. Darcy will recover fully."

Elizabeth Darcy did not hold herself back from running forward to hug Maddox until he couldn't breathe, as there were cheers all around, and a collective breath was released in Pemberley.

"What did you find?" she whispered to him.

"Darcy is now sans one kidney, which was badly damaged. Fortunately, G-d's grand design for the human body involves having a spare kidney. To this day I could never figure it out."

"And now you have?"

"Of course. It was to save Darcy."

...Next Chapter – Epilogue


	28. Epilogue

The Price of Family

A sequel to "A Bit of Advice" and "The Question of Consent"

By DJ Clawson

Author's Notes

(1) Historical trivia – For those of you who didn't know, Mary's lover Giovanni Ferretti is best known to the world as Pope Pius IX, pope from 1846 to 1878 and known for establishing the dogma of the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary. That last bit was just luck on my part; I chose him because his dates lined up with Mary's. He did, in his early years, resist joining the church by attempting to join the Noble Guard, but was rejected because of his epilepsy.

(2) Issues within this story – Despite the opening chapters and the Maddox subplot, the real focus of this stories was obviously Darcy, more so than it had been in previous stories. In past stories he's been more easy-going, but in this one he had to deal with things more familiar to _Pride and Prejudice_ – his temper, his stubbornness, and his being totally unwillingness to deal with issues that threaten him emotionally. (In the novel, it was his love of Elizabeth) This story was about the price of family. For Mary, it was a literal price. For Darcy, it was an emotional toll. Elizabeth said in _Pride and Prejudice_ of Wickham and Darcy that **"**_One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it_**."** (Chapter 40) I took that to a grander scale by expanding the spectrum. On one end you have Wickham, at the other Grégoire, and Darcy is somewhere in the middle, being not without his faults. Neither Darcy nor Wickham could really face the concept of being brothers; too much had passed between them. It had to end badly for them. Or, this is what I tried to convey. Tell me if I succeeded.

(3) Sequels – "A Bit of Advice" was just a little ditty I wanted to write about Bingley's sexual insecurities, and at the end I expressed no desire to just keep the story going until they grow old and die for the sake of it. I was wrong about my desires, because I came up with new stories to tell and characters to introduce, and I'd be lying if I said I don't have the sequel planned out and haven't written half of it. It's unnamed and not ready for posting, but it takes place 2-3 years in the future, so we get to see the children developing actual personalities (which we saw a little of with Georgiana and Geoffrey in this story). I don't know when it's going to be out, as I have a lot of real life projects to work on.

(4) Trivia – Georgiana's first words are an inside joke. I also didn't speak a world until I was three, when I turned to my mother in a doctor's office and said, "What's he going to do to me now?" She apparently fainted and the nurse had to get her up. Or so I've been told.

(5) Final notes - thank you all for your comments, which really kept me going through some hard times. Please tell me what you thought of this story, and what you'd like to see more (or less) of in the next one. I always listen very carefully to my readers and value their comments. If people are interested in missing scenes and short stories (as I did with the last one), let me know, because I wouldn't mind writing something in the interum while people are waiting.

* * *

Chapter 28 – Epilogue 

Darcy's recovery took over a month. The Maddoxes officially returned to Town because of the doctor's various requirements there, and they were relieved to find Brian still there and the place not looted. But the doctor was up and down England several times to check on his patient, whose progression was slow. Darcy was no longer in the prime of youth, and had been injured previous to his surgery, so he was pained for a long time, so much so that Maddox began restricting the dosage of medicine.

"I will not turn your husband into a dope fiend," Maddox said to Elizabeth.

He was frustrated with the results of only one aspect of the proceedings, which is that Darcy's hand had lots some of is capabilities. Though it was hardly frozen or limp, its flexibility was limited, to the point where his normally perfect script was illegible.

"It does match Geoffrey's almost perfectly," Elizabeth said, smoothing out the hair of her flustered and grumpy husband.

Darcy made a further inquiry into his future health, beyond his new dietary restrictions and his struggles to learn to write with his left hand. "What happened to the organ you removed?"

"To be honest, Doctor Lucas wished it for study at the University, as we are always want for such things, but I refused." Maddox went through his various things, and retrieved a small, sealed jar. "I did not know if you wished to be buried whole or something."

"Yes. Thank you," Darcy stammered, not quite sure what to do with a jar of his own kidney in his hands. "A gruesome business you are in. But, I will say, thank G-d such a capable man as you is in it. And my brother-in-law."

Despite Maddox's insistence that they did not have to pay him for his services, he did receive a new set of the latest medical compendium from the University of Paris in the post several weeks later. Doctor Lucas received a chair in his name at Cambridge, for the advancement of medical research in the field of surgical transplantation.

But that was not the only gifts the Maddoxes received. For a while he wondered if the Regent would ever bring up the subject of Frederick Maddox, because his royal intelligence surely knew of it, but the Regent did not ask and Maddox did not offer up the information. He thought he had escaped the matter entirely until Frederick's first birthday, when a new boy's cradle arrived at the house with no return sender, but the fact that it was of expensive Continental construction with Dutch wood engravings and gilded edges made him suspicious, as he had already received his son's gifts from those who both knew the real birthday and were fantastically wealthy, and that list was very short.

On the other side of the family, the Bennet household was full of joy – and a lot of wailing. The Widow Wickham had two rowdy children and until she remarried – which would, knowing Lydia, be as soon as she could take off her black for mourning _Mr._ Wickham – they would remain at Longbourn, which had undergone some minor renovations. And then there was baby Joseph, whom everyone was much happier with when he was sleeping through the night and not waking the whole household, especially because Mary refused a wet nurse and took all responsibilities on herself. And so Longbourn was filled with children again. If anyone had any questions as to how she had appeared with a child, Mr. Bennet insisted that not only had she sworn of marriage for the moment, but that she had taken in an orphan child while in France and she was simply too attached to the child for him to separate them. Any amount of social digging could discern this was an outright lie, but it was also known that Mr. Bennet had come into a massive fortune, and however questionable its origins, one did not say speak too unkindly to a man with a brand new massive fortune and three unmarried daughters, even if one was wearing jet and one had a child. At least, not within listening distance.

Kitty was sent to Town to be more forwardly on the market. Mr. Bennet did not have to buy her an apartment, even though he was thoroughly capable of doing so, because Georgiana quickly invited her to come live in the massive Darcy townhouse that was barely in use beyond herself and her own staff. As Georgiana Darcy was only the most proper of ladies, she would not only be a terrific influence, but she would put Mr. Bennet's mind at ease. He imagined that if a gentlemen so much as tried to walk up the front steps without good cause, Mr. Darcy would magically appear in Town on a cloud of smoke and escort him back down the street with a pistol.

As Darcy recovered, many celebrations were in order. Georgie and Geoffrey turned three, and their birthdays were so close that the families were invited to Derbyshire for the whole business.

Aside from his own recovery, and his wife's increasing girth, Darcy had few things to worry about. In fact, the only thing he could think of at the moment was Grégoire, the monastic secluded from his monasticism. As much as he obviously enjoyed being with his newfound family, and as much as his humility prevented what would have made Darcy outright furious at the stares he got for his appearance, he was not settled in England. He probably, Darcy eventually came to realize (after many promptings from Elizabeth), never would be. And in Ireland, where they still clutched on to their Catholicism, the monasteries were dissolved. Despite his youth, he was a relic.

Doubling his pain was a letter from the Monastery of Mon-Claire. The abbot wrote in long and lengthy Latin, and whatever it said, Grégoire paled at it and disappeared. When he did not show up for lunch or dinner, they sent a party out, and found him lying on his father's grave, staring up at the sky.

Darcy called the men off, set the lantern down, and sat down beside him. He barely noticed that Wickham's tombstone had been finished and installed. "I would build you a monastery if I could."

"You cannot."

"What did it say?"

"I don't care to repeat it and slander my abbot." He sighed, clutching the cross from Rome. "Well, I suppose he isn't my father abbot anymore."

"So you were cast out."

"Yes."

"On what charges?"

"He made various assumptions about my activities and behavior on the road."

"Was he correct?"

"Partially. I did ride in a carriage when I could have walked." He laughed. "I suppose that is a bit ridiculous."

"A bit?"

"He also said – He wrote that he knew when I walked out the door that I would give myself in to the temptations of wealth and flesh."

"But, you have not."

Grégoire turned his head without sitting up. "Am I changed man since I walked out of the cloister?"

"I don't see you in a gambling den with a whore on each side, no. In fact, my barber has complained to me about your insistence on trimming your hair in such a fashion that he finds backwards and ridiculous."

"And what did you say to him?"

"That if he every complained again, I would dismiss him."

There was silence in the cold autumn night.

"When I am well enough," Darcy said. "I will take you back to France, or even go as far as Spain to find you a proper abbey."

"I cannot ask you to travel for me."

Darcy replied, "You have no idea how many people have told me not to do things for them. And I've never listened to them, because I am a ridiculously stubborn man, and somehow I always get thanked in the end. Or shot. Sometimes both."

The brothers shared a laugh, and Darcy escorted the little monk back to the house.

He eventually convinced Grégoire to winter in Pemberley, if only to see his new nephew or niece in the spring. On this, at least, Grégoire was convinced, and they arranged for a more abbey-like set-up for him in the private chapel, which was still medieval in character. Mrs. Reynolds even located the old altar furnishings behind a dusty wooden screen, unused since the Reformation, and Darcy dubbed the room beside the chapel "Pemberley Abbey."

The families did not see each other in full until Christmas, which conveniently was also the birthdays of the Bingley twins, finally leaving their year of infancy behind. The Bennets arrived with tiny Joseph Bennet, now not so tiny, but still very adorable. The Maddoxes were last, having said good-bye to Brian two months before.

"He's gone where?" Darcy said, apparently not having been informed in all the commotion of his situation.

"The hills of Romany. In Eastern Austria, I believe." The doctor did not look excessively happy about it.

"To be married a woman he's met twice."

"And is royalty," said Mr. Bennet, still highly amused. "The foreign princess."

"I would say that I've heard crazier things from Brian, but this may actually be the thing that would qualify him for Bedlam," Maddox said, unconsciously looking at his wife, who cradled their daughter, with concern. "I can't say I was happy about it, but I have no authority to stop him."

"Her name again?"

"G-d, it's impossible to pronounce. And he's only said it a few times. Actually, he's been rather quiet and shy about the woman herself."

"Hmmm," Caroline Maddox said, "When do men get quiet and shy about women?"

"I don't get quiet and shy about women," Bingley said.

"That's because you're a social twit," Darcy said. "The correct answer is apparently: when they're in love."

"_Twit_?"

"Yes, that was what I was looking for, Darcy," Mrs. Maddox said. "Don't you agree, Mrs. Darcy?"

"_Did he really call me a twit_?"

"Absolutely," Elizabeth said. "Especially when they're deeply, passionately in love but cannot bear to show it."

"_I know it's his house, but still! Darcy!_"

"What?" Darcy said, pretending to be broken from a reverie. "Bingley, I can only be assaulted on one front at once, and here I have two women, so will you please just take my side?"

"Against my sister and your wife? Do you think me mad?"

"Well, everyone needs to have a mad brother," Jane said. "Apparently."

"I've already got one. Sorry, Mrs. Bingley," Darcy said, and ignored the fact that Grégoire tossed an olive in his direction. "And so does Doctor Maddox. So really, the Bingley family is lacking in brothers who won't listen to reason unless you look around the other way and count Bingley himself."

"_Hey_! _Look, I don't have to take this -_ "

"Does anyone know the hour?" Darcy looked at his pocket watch.

"Why do we assume our Lord was born precisely at midnight?" Maddox said. "And seeing as how the sun sets faster in the east, isn't it already midnight in his birthplace?"

"Don't mix logic and religion, doctor," Mr. Bennet said, "or you'll get something quite combustible."

"Cheers to that," said Grégoire, and raised his glass as he crossed himself.

* * *

The winter was cold but short, and it was an anxious time for the Darcys, but in a happy way. By her confinement, Elizabeth's chances of miscarriage were slim. In fact, she was perfectly healthy aside from the normal trials of being with child, so there was no reason to expect a bad turn.

On a chilly spring day, when the roads of Derbyshire were wet with melted snow, Elizabeth Darcy delivered a child after a day of cursing Darcy, everyone of relation, everyone who tried to aid her in the trials of labor, and mankind as a whole. Her vocabulary, Jane had to admit to her husband later, had improved in a very fascinating way in her many travels since her last labor, and Jane learned a good deal.

"Well, I'll clearly be spending any future labor of yours drunk again," Bingley said, patting her on the back.

The child was a healthy, beautiful baby girl with brown hair and what Darcy immediately noticed were "Elizabeth's fine eyes." He had the misfortune of being not allowed more than half a glass of wine a day, and so spent the long hours in his study pacing endlessly and occasionally cursing off the dogs as they followed him around. His usual calm demeanor only returned when presented with his child in front of an exhausted Elizabeth, who had the further suffering of her first child leaping on the bed to get a good first view of his new sister.

"What's her name?"

"They don't come with tags, darling," she said. "But I have decided that she should be named Anne, so that your father can have something to do with that lovely bracelet without giving it to Mrs. Fitzwilliam, which at this point would be downright odd."

It took Darcy a moment to recall it. "Yes, of course." He handed the baby back to Elizabeth's eager arms, weak as they were, and ran out of the room quickly, returning with a small gold bracelet, the one they had recovered from the drawer of Darcy secrets in the Normandy estate. "My darling Anne," he said. The child, barely awake, obviously did not have the wrists yet for it, but he let her grasp its hoop with her tiny fingers.

Anne Jane Darcy was christened in the little chapel in Pemberley, and despite his insistence on a lack of ordination, they insisted that Grégoire have the honor of doing it as soon as Elizabeth was well enough to attend. After a rushed portrait could be made so he could have one of each of them, Grégoire Bellamont left for the Continent, to trade in his grey robes for black ones and become a Benedictine novice. Brian Maddox had seen the abbey in Bavaria himself on the way through and sent his approval to all of Darcy's exact specifications. They would even let him travel to visit his family in England, as they were not French and not so isolationist. He was allowed to leave Derbyshire only with a promise to be write and to return to see his niece and nephew, and with a wooden staff he had carved from a tree branch, he quite literally walked out of Pemberley.

"Stubborn to the end," Elizabeth said as they watched him disappear down to the road.

"He'll hit the ocean eventually, I'm sure, and then he _will_ have to ride," Darcy said. "But he'll probably walk across Europe, too. obstinate monk."

"Truly a Darcy."

"I think we have living proof, right here and now, that I am no monk," Darcy said, and kissed her as Anne gurgled in her arms. "You know, you were not required to name her after my mother," Darcy said, with no dispute in his voice.

"Oh, but I did. She did me the great favor of having you. And putting up with you during your worst years."

"If you think I was intolerable as a child, then you know nothing about University," he said. "But that is another story."

"Darcy! Are you hiding something from me?"

"It is not so much hiding as leaving out various things which do not bear repeating."

"When do I get to go to University?" Geoffrey asked, looking up at his father.

Darcy replied. "Never. Also, Anne's never going out. It's the abbey for both of you."

"Father!"

"I hope you like chores and prayer. Long, boring hours of prayer. And wearing a dress."

"Now you're joking with me!"

"I'm being perfectly serious. And not just the top of your head. Some orders shave their whole head. You'll be bald before you're fifteen if I convince them to take you that early."

"Darcy," Elizabeth whispered. "Stop torturing our son."

"Well, if he can do it to me at three in the morning, I should be able to occasionally do it to him," he said.

"Then I should have my rights to torture you as well."

"Lizzy, you have been doing it since the night we met," he said. "Now I'd best catch our son before he sets up a trap for us."

"_Us_? I was hardly involved beyond defending him. You are the mocking father here, Darcy. Now run along, and catch him before he gets himself all muddy, and I have to see to his cleaning myself. You know Nurse can't get him clean."

"Yes, _Mrs. Darcy_," he said with a stiff bow, and just as he was about to break off in pursuit of Geoffrey, he turned back against and kissed Elizabeth. His son had a good head start before he could begin the proper chase down the path, but Darcy decided it was worth it.

Finis.


	29. Preview for Left to Follow

The new story, _Left to Follow_, is up. It follows the families 2 years after this story. If you want to get updates by email, put yourself on alert.

A preview from somewhere in the story:

* * *

"But she will know! _He_ will know!" Darcy was having trouble staying in place. The urge to pace around, to look away – to get away from this insane woman – was ready to overcome him. "Are you intending to propose that they divorce?"

"Of course not! It would bring unimaginable shame to the family – "

"As would your suggestion! Or even, more so! A child out of wedlock for no other reason than this stupid idea of family blood lines? I may have a medieval brother, but I believe the rest of us are living in the same century! If they want children, let them adopt?"

"Like your sister Mary did? So conveniently while in France?" Lady Catherine snarled.

"Yes!" he said without thinking. "No! – you are trying to throw me off! You know very well what I meant. If it is all to be covered up anyway, who cares if belongs to one of them or neither of them? If you are so concerned about outside opinion – "

"I am concerned for this family! The same family whose name you bare, Fitzwilliam. I will not let it die!"

"_Then you should have had sons_!" Even in his enraged state, he could tell – after a moment or so of stunned silence – that he had gone too far. He stepped back, attempting to compose himself as he bowed. "I apologize, Aunt Catherine. But – surely you have not brought this idea to either of them?"

"No," she said. "I need your help to do it."

The blood drained from his face. He felt it, like it was growing cold as death. "You cannot be serious."

"I am very – "

"_No._"

"Fitzwilliam, I am your aunt – "

"I know who you are, and I will never consent to such a plan," he said calmly, his voice steady in his severity. "It goes beyond all propriety and taste, and I will have nothing to do with it. Ever."

"You – "

"We have nothing more to say on the subject. In fact, I find myself in need of refreshment or I may well be ill. Goodnight, Lady Catherine." He bowed again, turned, and left, tuning out her shrieks of his name by slamming the door behind him.


End file.
